Witcher's Blood
by mikitta
Summary: The witchers survived the attack on Kaer Morhen by the witch hunters, but at a cost. As Eskel, Kozin and Drummond leave the keep for Novigrad, there is more at stake than witcher secrets. A fourth war looms in the shadows awaiting a spark to fan it into flames. Sequel to "The Last Manticore". Updates are very slow right now as things are kind of tough IRL.
1. Smoking Pyres

_**Author's Note - This story is a sequel to "The Last Manticore" If you haven't read it yet, please do. As this story progresses, you will understand some things a little better.  
**  
 **Thank you Spike368 for allowing Kerrass to cameo in this story. He's a wonderfully complex witcher and I am enjoying his style greatly.**_  
 _ **Thank you The Joeker for edits. They are much appreciated!  
**_

 _ **As always - please leave a review and let me know how you enjoyed the chapter!**_

* * *

 _ **August 30th, 1272**_

Novigrad was a fine city, boasting a population that the last census claimed to top thirty thousand men, women, children and assorted others. Kerrass walked his horse through the streets, uneasily noting the burned bodies tied to charred stakes at regular intervals along the main thoroughfare. The acrid odor of cooked human and humanoid flesh clogged out all other smells in a sickly-sweet fog that played amongst the breeze that blew in from harborside. The lean Cat witcher hadn't been to the Redanian Free City since last Yule, when Novigrad had been a much less grim and noisome place. The beginning of September was early to settle into his customary wintering hole, but a contract had led him here and Kerrass figured he might as well drop in to see Karadin and his family while he was in the neighborhood, even if he did decide to ferret out a few more jobs before the snows started.

After leaving his horse at a livery stable not far from the merchant district, the lean Cat strolled to Hierarch Square, intent on hitting up the open air market to find suitable gifts to please Jad's two youngsters. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he liked it when they called him Uncle Kerr, so he always went out of his way to find baubles and toys that might please them when he was in town. The rangy witcher's sense of unease climbed a notch as he moved along with the steady flow of sullen city dwellers into the area. Four prominent pyres were being prepared with fresh wood, directed by a witch hunter that boasted a fresh and ugly wound stitched down his cheek. Someone had sliced his face open with the precision of a master swordsman.

Against his better judgment, Kerrass tucked himself into the burgeoning crowd gathering around to watch who would be set alight today. He didn't have to wait long to find out. The rhythmic sound of marching feet filled the air as witch hunters streamed in from the North of the square, dragging a jail cart filled with the four unfortunate souls. Seldom in his life had Kerrass employed as much self-discipline as he did in the instant he recognized two senior servants of Jad's household and the young boys that were imprisoned with them. The butler, an old, rheumy man was whipped across the face as he stumbled out of the paddy wagon, then roughly dragged up to the right middle stake and tied securely. Next came his wife, the cook, who looked like she had been ravaged recently. After them came one of the pot boys alongside a young lad who cared for Karadin's horses. The witch hunter with the stitched face stood tall atop a large box, unrolling a scroll and reading the charges in a loud, commanding voice that had the crowd settling into anticipatory silence.

"Be it hereby known, upon the authority of Hiarch Cyril Englebert Hemmelfart, that the following four individuals were found colluding with foul spirits, cavorting with demons and engaging in unnatural congress during orgies with the witcher Jad Karadin and his wife, blaspheming the flame in the most unholy of ways." Hisses and cat calls issued from the mob, vibrating with hatred at the words.

"Is' not true!" Screamed the cook, sobbing out of a bloodied mouth. "We's good, honest folk!"

"Shaddup ye foul witch!" Screamed someone from the crowd, throwing a stone which bounced off the battered woman's shoulder.

The man with the parchment bellowed like a bull. "Shut it you lot! Silence!" The witch hunters ranged around the pyres shifted, drew their weapons, pushing against the crowd with deadly menace. The rabble subsided into a low roar of mutters.

"Be it known that as a consequence of their foul deeds, these four have been sentenced to the cleansing power of the flame. Should they be innocent of all charges, they will pass through the fire unscathed!" With his final proclamation, the witch hunter jumped from the box and brandished a flaming torch handed off by one of his lackeys, making a show of striding between the middle pyres and lighting them. He then backed away and handed the torch off to another subordinate.

Kerrass edged out of the cheering mob with the screams of the four servants ringing through his head. It was an effort to maintain his casual, loose jointed gait as he moved quickly toward the Karadin's townhouse. The estate was a hive of activity as men moved in and out, removing furnishings, clothing and art as a scribe made note of every possession. The witcher didn't stop, just kept his head down and observed the goings on as he walked by. Turning the corner into an alleyway, he grasped the edge of a wall and bent double. Jad, Letitia, the little ones; where were they? Kerrass took deep, cleansing breaths, tamping down on the urge to vomit while he pressed his face into the rough stones. Slight, scraping footfalls shuffling through city grit, warned him in time to pull himself together as a waif skittered around the corner, running toward him.

He didn't recognize her as part of Karadin's household, but the little girl rushed right up to him and pushed a piece of folded paper at his belly before dashing away down the alley. He inspected the missive, written on common, low quality parchment. A graphite stub had been used to scrawl a message for him.

 _'Ask for Tattie at the Passiflora'_ was all it said.

Scowling at the words, the lean witcher struggled briefly with the idea of tracking down the child who had given him the note or following its instruction. He crushed the note in his fist and strode away toward the famous brothel, somehow thinking any investigation by him in this neighborhood would bring down the witch hunters on innocent people.

Kerrass had regained his equilibrium by the time he entered the scented portal of the three story bordello, allowing a khole eyed woman to pass him a glass of wine as she trailed practiced fingers across his shoulders.

"Mmmmmm another witcher. We've been so fortunate this summer to have many of your kind on our doorstep." Her grin was sultry, full of carnal promise as her soft, delicate hands grazed the exposed skin at his throat. She would have, under better circumstances, snared his eager attention.

"I'm here to see Tattie." He murmured, keeping his eyes hooded as he looked down into the whore's upturned face. "Don't suppose you can arrange for me to have her in a private room, hmm?"

The girl's eyes turned hard even as her mouth formed a bitter mou. Then like smoke, her expression shifted and once again became seductive. "She does the laundry!" Her laughter tinkled like breaking glass around him. "What do you want with a washer girl when you can have me? I assure you, Stacia can satisfy your needs, even those you didn't know you had." Those delicate hands wound around his neck and she plastered herself to him, nuzzling in to lick his throat, eliciting an intense response of pure male lust. He wasn't here for sex, but Kerrass wouldn't let on and played the game consummately.

"My sweet lady Stacia, I want a private room and Tattie." He gently caressed her chin between his thumb and forefinger, dropping the timber of his voice an octave and purred down at her, "I promise if you can deliver that, you can have me for the rest of the night when she's done." He shifted subtly, grinding his hips into her as his glittering gaze raked over her body, coming to rest on the doxy's exposed cleavage, then wandering back up to capture her pretty blue eyes. His grin was feral as he added in a rumble of earthy promise, "There's plenty of me to go around."

Stacia licked her lips and nodded, slipping from his grasp and beckoning him to follow her up the stairs, bidding him enter the room she unlocked as she went in search of the laundress. Kerrass stood at the window overlooking the back of the brothel's property, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. The door opened behind him and he turned to see a fresh faced lass nervously enter the room, swearing when he recognized Tolly and Greta Karadin's nursemaid, Teensie Marple.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He barked, glaring at her as his hand balled into a fist at his side.

"Oh, Master Kerrass! I'm so glad it's you!" The girl hurtled into him and the witcher's hands came up to catch her shoulders, patting her back awkwardly as sobs wracked her slender body.

"Tell me what happened." He asked, modulating his voice into a more comforting timber, sitting beside her on the side of the bed as she fought to get herself under control.

Tearfully, the girl told him of the witch hunters battering down the door in the middle of the night a week ago, of Master Jad and Mistress Leticia being lead away in dimiterium manacles. The mistress' mother had been left to attend the children.

"T'is only been two days since the master returned to us," the girl gulped, "looking haunted and empty, beaten so raw there wasn't a patch of skin anywhere on him that wasn't bloody or bruised. His eyes were terrible and he told us Mistress Letty was dead." She wept again, unable to continue her story for a moment. "She were so kind to us and those witch hunters killed her!"

The witcher did his best to comfort the distraught girl. Information. He needed information. "Where did Karadin, Master Jad, go? Where are the children and their grandmother?"

"I, I don't know. But he gave me this and told me to give it to you should I ever see you." Teensie pulled a marked coin from her pocket, pressing it in his hand. She shuddered as she continued her story. "He took the bairns and the grand dame off with him and told me to gather the other servants and hide. Said he would take the children somewhere safe. Wasn't more than an hour after they left that the witch hunters broke into the house and took Cookie and old Shuburt and two of the boys. I ran here. Madam is a friend of my mother so she took me in right away. I had my friend at the neighbor's keep an eye out for you or any of the Master's friends to bring them here."

The wiry man stood and started to pace. Scratching his beard and thinking. He had missed his brother Cat by two days, and now Jad had disappeared. Kerrass felt frustrated and angry that he hadn't been available when Karadin's family had needed him. Jad and the children could be tracked, though that was not an easy enterprise. Witchers were notoriously hard to trace when they didn't want to be found.

"Master witcher," the girl breathed fearfully, hopefully. "We need your help. Those of us who got away. We have to get out of the city, out of Redania. All of us are on the wanted list by the Church. They'll burn us on a pyre!" Her eyes were wild and panicked. "We don't have much and we know you don't give charity, but we'll pay you. Six of us are ready to leave if you'll take us south to Nazaire. Decided it's far enough to start over and not ever be recognized by them who would kill us here." She peered up at him hopefully.

The witcher stopped pacing and looked at the coin the girl had given him more carefully, nodding to himself. "Stay put here. I'll be in touch." With that, he left the brothel, figuring he should have known Karadin was nose deep with the local mob. Heels striking sparks off the cobbles he headed to the bathhouse for answers.

It was close to the Passiflora, set under the curving roadway that led to Temple Island, a cool and inviting edifice that advertised its services for all who had the coin. Kerrass knocked on the solid oak recessed door, flashing the coin when a face appeared at a small, shuttered window in it. The door opened and he stepped inside, passing the coin over as a comely wench led him away down a hallway.

"Master Reuven wishes to see you." Was all she said as she ushered him into a dark paneled office lined, floor to ceiling, with imposing book cases. The door snicked shut, closing in on gloom broken by only a single oil lamp. The room was well cared for, lemon oil evidently being the favored polish used on the wooden surfaces here.

Kerras heard the creak of leather and wood as someone shifted their weight at his approach. The acrid smell of a cheroot flared as that someone lit a puff on the cigar, allowing a thin billow of smoke to drift into the shadows. "Do you know, Novigrad has been the center of a fucking witcher's convention lately? Can't swing a rat without hitting one of you." Complained a grating, irate voice that belonged to the smoking cheroot. "Makes me wonder what's afoot. Makes me damn nervous." The words floated up from behind the tall back of an imposing chair on more drifting smoke. A hand gestured to the right, seemingly at the massive bookcase in front of the someone. "If the damned lot of you weren't so useful, I'd have secured my peace and done for you long ago. Not that you aren't culling your own ranks nicely all on your own. Cats, wolves, even snakes run around what's left of Temeria as if it's a fucking playground, getting themselves killed in the bargain."

The man rose from his seat revealing himself to be large and raw boned. Sigi Rueven was well dressed after the manner of a very wealthy merchant or minor nobility, leaning heavily on an ebony cane that was carved to resemble an owl at the top. He came into the light and glared at Kerrass from slitted eyes and a sour face. "Do you know what I hate even more than witchers randomly causing trouble in my city just being their happy assed selves?"

The witcher narrowed his eyes at the big man and crossed his arms across his chest, his stance subtle and loose, ready to uncoil at the merest flicker of warning. "Don't particularly care what you hate, Reuven. I just want some answers. For starters, where's Jad Karadin?"

The big man laughed, a grating sound reminiscent of boulders being crushed alongside a road. "I hate owing a witcher. I hate being obliged to one so much I have to entertain another in my office as part of discharging that obligation. Sit." The sharp words were not an invitation, though the two shot glasses that appeared on the desk alongside a demijohn of vodka were. Kerrass ground his teeth together, bunching his jaw before taking the seat and accepting a glass from the big man lounging at his ease against a bookshelf.

"What did you owe my brother Cat?" Kerrass threw the jigger of vodka back, enjoying its slow burn down his throat to warm his chest.

A nasty sneer twisted his host's lips. "That's neither here nor there, but he was useful to me. Just like you will be."

"What makes you so sure I'll play your game?" The lean witcher stood and turned to leave.

"You won't find Karadin or the children on your own. You should know witchers are damn hard to find when they don't want to be." Sigi Reuven growled, "But you do this job for me and I'll give you the information you want." Kerrass sank back on the chair and threw back the remainder of his vodka, wanting to curse at the mobster who taunted him.

Reigning in his temper with a tightened fist on his knee, the witcher ground out in a measured voice, "What do you want me to do?"

"It's very simple really. You'll be escorting Letitia Karadin's mother to Vizima. And taking a packet with you to Emperor Emhyr." The big mobster chuckled nastily at the sour look on the witcher's face. "You will wait until you are sent on your way, do what they ask and then when it's time, you will return to me whatever it is they give you."

"Why the delay?" The witcher asked, "Why not just tell me where to find my friend and leave it at that."

"Two reasons. First, nothing is ever free. You want a favor, you have to do a favor for me." The big man's sneer was ugly. "Second, I gave my word to Karadin that I would cover his tracks out of Novigrad and give him a straight run wherever he was going." Reuven refilled his shot glass, holding the demijohn to Kerrass. "No, I DON'T know where that is, so don't ask."

Accepting the jar of hooch, the rangy man scratched at the rough beard under his chin. "What's the point if you don't know where he went?"

Reaching for a drawer in his desk, the mobster pulled out an envelope, holding it so Kerrass could recognize the writing on it's surface. He noted the wax was impressed with Karadin's own seal and that it had not been broken. Reuven pointed the edge of the envelop at the witcher.

"You do what I ask and this will be yours. Shouldn't take you long. It's just a simple delivery and pick up job then you come back here." Reuven laughed the moment he saw the witcher's capitulation. "Have a bath on the house tonight. You get on the road just after midnight." With that, the mobster sat back in his high backed chair, dismissing Kerrass with a wave of his cheroot.


	2. Kingdoms and Kings

October 4th, 1272

Light flickered around the room, dodging shadows and playing with corners. It reflected off the serene face of Tobold Muire, who knelt before a holy brazier, lit with the licking tongues of Eternal Flame. Average of build, with slightly less than average features, he didn't make a lasting first impression. The best one could say was that he represented the great faceless mass of humanity in his very mundanity. He could have been anyone walking down by the dockyards, or a farmer ploughing his field in the spring; any sailor, soldier or merchant could have easily been mistaken for him. Even his hair wasn't noteworthy, holding no shimmer of gold, nor the shine of the sun. It lay in lackluster strands of dull dishwater blond above nondescript eyes that really had no color at all.

Even the Hierarch had trouble picking him out of a crowd and Hemmelfart had taken Tobold under his own wing to groom him for this position. Muire was precisely the sort of man any spymaster would have paid a king's ransom to attract into his counterintelligence stable for the sheer ability to become entirely invisible by merit of his natural attributes - or lack thereof. His body was an obscuring camouflage for the intelligent mind and ruthless heart that lay beneath. His success within the Church of the Eternal Flame, however, lay in his ability to persuade people to do as he wished. When his mother lived, she was fond of saying he could talk the birds from the trees. Boasting an impressive record for pulling confessions and persuading heretics to recant, Tobald rarely had to resort to physical torture.

Breathing deeply of the smoky air, the man rose to his feet, his prayers finished for the night. The mantle and weapons of a witch hunter settled easily over his shoulders and around his compact frame, but he did not betray his rank in outward adornment, preferring to take to heart the doctrine of the church that a man of the divine embers must never flare brighter than the Eternal Fire itself. To call attention to one's person required hubris, and pride led to destruction as the man's predecessors had discovered. Caleb Menge and Belleville March had been brash and cocksure, confident of their own place in the world and their power. Both now drifted on the wind, burned to purified ash.

The witch hunter glided through the Temple of Eternal Fire, seeking the lowest level where implements of torture sat ready for use. He felt saddened that he might have to utilize those tools with his current subject. Tonight, the Commandant of the Witch Hunters, hoped the man they held would see the spark before they had to apply flame to a body already abused. Muire smiled faintly at the Church's official confessionist and executioner as he stepped into the room. Known as Skeff of Andon, the tall man was so lean as to appear skeletal in the uncertain light of the dungeon, his face a grinning death's head that nodded and cackled as he stoked a brazier in the corner.

"Skeff, are we ready? Do you think our guest will see the Fire's light and confess?" Tobold asked in a voice that was almost feminine in it's lightness.

The torturer scratched at his balls and spat a fat glob of mucus into the corner. "If'n he want te be mum, guv, I's gots me lovies to mek 'im bleat."

"Indeed. Indeed." Intoned Tobold. "I would prefer we find gentler methods, first. A man who has been tortured will not necessarily give a reliable confession, but will scream out what ever makes the pain stop. But a man whose heart has been changed will speak true. Let us attempt to change his heart first."

The witch hunter stepped to a man hunched in a corner, strapped to a scavenger's daughter and struggling to draw a deep breath. His head was held stationary about 20 inches from his ankles, forced between his knees, and his hands were bound six inches from his throat, along the ridged staff of the torture device.

Crouching down before the prisoner, Muire laid a gentle hand on a rigidly flexed knee. "What is your name, sir? I think it best if we know each other. I'm Tobold and I would like to consider myself your friend and ally here." Unremarkable eyes held the prisoner's own in a steady and compassionate gaze.

"Me name's Clarken. Clarken of Radwell. If your me friend, let me go. I've done nothing wrong, guv!" Clarken's voice was strained and breathless as he forced it from his cramped body.

Muire nodded kindly. "Won't you tell us, brother Clarken, what you know? Where has Constable Natalis gone with Annaise LaVallette?"

The witch hunter brushed dirty hair from the prisoner's face as he peered into Clarken's sunken eyes, clucking sadly. Witch hunters had brought him in six days ago after abducting him from a small farmstead southeast of Vizima. They had posed as rug merchants and had rolled him within a large carpet to smuggle the abducted man to Novigrad. Those men had not been gentle with their burden. Struggling to breath, the bound man shook his head as well as he could. "I know nothing. The constable didn't share secrets with me, I'm only a gardener!"

Muire stood. "Skeff, be so kind as to release master Clarken from his bonds. I'm sure he'll willingly tell us all he knows." Tobold smiled charmingly and sat at the table in the center of the chamber, pouring a cup of mead for the gardener. Skeff dragged Clarken over to the stool and shoved him into it. The gardener could barely unfold from the cramped position he had been forced to assume for the last two days. At his ease, Muire offered the cup to the frightened man.

"Tell us, please, where is Anaise LaVallette? You can save yourself from further pain if you will simply tell me what you know. Friend to friend. I assure you I wish only to ensure the child is protected." He slowly raised his eyes to Clarken's and allowed a pleading note to enter his voice. "There are those who would murder the little maiden. Won't you help me?"

"I… I truly don't know." Wept the gardener. "Don't you think I would have said before this? Why do you keep asking me?"

"Because you're the one here to answer my questions. Please. Drink up. It's the first sustenance you've had in several days, am I right?" Tobold's voice had taken on the tone of a gentle tutor scolding an errant pupil. "When did constable Natalis leave?"

"Dunno exactly, last summer sometime. End of June, mebbe or July?" Clarken gulped the mead in his cup, holding out to be refilled. His head was beginning to swim.

"Did he have the child with him then?" Muire filled the cup as he voiced the question.

"I… I don't know. I didn't see him leave. I never saw any child honestly, though I heard the master had brought one." Tobald only nodded.

"Who else would know where Natalis went, Clarken?" The nondescript man stood quietly to his feet and padded around the table till he was in front of his prisoner. "Think carefully, my friend. Are there any servants that would have been privy to the master's secret dealings? Was his wife involved? A little girl's life is at stake."

The gardener shook his head, feeling the affects of the mead, trying to focus into the bottom of his cup. "Dunno, mebbe. Missus, she's still at the house. Leastways she was when I wuz las' there." Tobold nodded to himself, watching Clarken trying to focus. The witch hunter prized his special mead, a combination of honey mead, a pinch of opium and a special preparation of belladonna. He crouched before his prisoner and held the man's lids open with his thumbs. The gardener's pupils were blown wide and he giggled a little at Tobald as he swayed.

"Listen carefully, Clarken, my friend. You wish to be honest with me, don't you?" Muire's voice was soft and sing-song, floating around the prisoner as he swayed on his stool. "Tell me where John Natalis is."

Eyes rolling around in their sockets, Clarken tried to focus on Tobold. "He, he left last August. I don't know …. Don't know where he went'"

The soft voice purred again. "You wish to be honest. We're friends and you can tell me. It's so important for you to tell me. A little girl's life is at stake."

Clarken's vision seemed to pulse with Tobold's voice. The edges had grown dark and fuzzy and flickering light of the braziers seemed to stretch along the stones of the wall in queer ways. "Wanna tell you. I dunno. Dunno no little girl. Missus might. Missus would know what happened te master John, where he went." The gardener started giggling and couldn't stop.

"That's good brother Clarken. That's good. You've helped me. You will continue to help, won't you?" The gardener nodded dumbly. "Where is Lady Natalis? I must find her. You must help me" So gentle, the words. They sank into the soggy brain of the prisoner.

"Ssshhhe … ssheee's at the tow .. townhouse. East of Vizzzz. Vffiizzz. Fizzzeeema. She liiikes her gar… gar … garden." Clarken's words were coming slower and more slurred.

Tobold stood again and motioned the confessionist forward. "Skeff, put our friend to bed in a clean cell with soft sheets. Make sure he has food and water when he awakens. We have only just begun to bring his heart into the light of the Flame."

Muire left the dungeon then and strode toward his office. He would send a team of two hunters to retrieve Lady Natalis. Who was it that had come to his attention recently? Ah yes, Graden and his little protege, Tamara. He sat at his desk and started writing the missive to be sent to Oxenfurt.

* * *

Emhyr Var Emris, Imperator of Nilfgaard, King of Cintra, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair and Vicovaro stood immobile as a statue as he perused the map of Novigrad on the fine grained tabletop in his personal library. He was a stately man, tall of figure and broad of shoulder, and he wore the mantle of leadership on his dark head with great aplomb. Only the bunching of his jaw gave away his agitation to the man who stood on the other side of the table from him. General Morvran Voorhis stood at parade rest as his sovereign digested the missive received only an hour ago from Dijkstra's agent.

The Imperator shifted finally, nodding his head toward the marker flag that stood over Novigrad on the huge map. "We are sure that Radovid can be lured to the city and his forces undermined?" Var Emris palmed his chin in thought. Voorhis nodded his head.

"Yes, your excellency. Our agents indicate he is eager to take Novigrad, though he hasn't the support of the four Kingpins. Dijkstra is feeding our enemy useful disinformation to the contrary, however." The general leaned forward and moved a marker toward the temple district on the map. "Surprisingly, Cyprian Wiley changed his allegiance within the last six weeks and now stands with Bedlam, Reuvan and Varese against Redanian occupation."

Slowly, Var Emris nodded. "With the crime bosses united, and the Temerian guerillas pledged to us, we will defeat Redania and end this war." The monarch sighed. "I am willing to give Roche what he wants. Rule of Temeria as a sovereign state, with regency of Redania and Kaedwen as vassals of Temeria, and free agency insofar as those lands remain loyal to Nilfgaard's interests."

It was an enormous concession, but it was time to allow the north to stabilize. Roche was the most logical choice of ruler.

A Temeria that prospered could only be good for the empire, bringing a burgeoning trade that would rebuild coffers dripped perilously dry from over a decade of warfare. Voorhis dared to breath a very quiet sigh of relief. Had the emperor made any other decision than this, the General had been ready to implement a more drastic plan to change his mind … or remove him from power. He was relieved that plan could stay buried now, forever.

"Come, my friend." Murmured Emhyr, "Let us drink to Redania's defeat and Radovid's end. It's a pity he must die. Though by all accounts he is mad as a March hare, he is a strategic genius." The men moved toward a large oaken desk set near enormous leaded windows that looked over the southern gardens. As the taciturn ruler poured Est Est into two cut crystal flutes, Morvran glanced idly at the surface of the desk. A fine charcoal sketch of Cirilla Fiona Rianon lay on it's surface.

"A strategic genius, but a thorn in our sides for the last year. Here's to peace and prosperity under the Great Sun!" The general's toast was echoed by the monarch, who noted Voorhis interest in the sketch.

"Geralt brought her to me a few weeks ago. She is much like her mother." Emhyr traced the cheek of the girl in the drawing and sighed. He missed Pavetta still, after nearly twenty years. He had been angry at her for leaving Cirilla with Queen Calanthe on the trip to Nilfgaard, but the loss of his wife had nearly destroyed him. At least his only child had not perished when the ship went down over the Sedna Abyss. That trip was to see Pavetta as his Empress and Cirilla raised in the manner to which she had been born, but he had been left mourning his wife even as he wrested his throne from the usurper.

"She has grown up, your majesty. I imagine it was an enlightening meeting." adept at courtly small talk, Voorhis managed to comment without being invasive.

"Yes." The word was whispered. Then only slightly louder, "She gave me a dressing down the likes I've not received since I was a small boy in leading strings and short coats." A fond, fatherly smile lit the stern man's countenance. "She told me what I could do with the empire that I would leave to her."

Brows drawing together as he straightened his back, the general asked, "So she won't be returning?"

"Oh, she'll return." The smile turned sardonic, "She informed me, in no uncertain terms that she had business to take care of and then she was going to spend the remainder of her time as a free woman with the witcher. But after yule she will return and take up the mantle of leadership."

The general paced toward the beveled glass of the window and looked out on the rain-soaked grounds. "You truly mean to abdicate then." It wasn't a question.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Emhyr joined the other man in his perusal. "I find, more and more, that I am not what the empire needs. I'm tired and haven't the heart to continue when young blood is so readily at hand to replace me. I wish only to see an end to this war and the establishment of my daughter on the throne, then retire to Darn Rowan with my wife." The two men stood side by side, deep in thought before the emperor spoke again. "Cirilla is … headstrong. She will need strong counselors to advise her. I trust you to be as good a friend to her as you have been to me." Emhyr paused, dipping his head as if the thought pained him. "She will also need a strong husband, capable of channeling her passions to the greater good of the empire."

"Sire." Voorhis kept his face impassive and his body relaxed as he listened to his monarch's words.

"Morvran, your family has always acted in the best interests of the Empire and I have valued your counsel these past twenty years. You are not so very old for her, and it is my wish you will marry Cirilla and rule by her side."

One hand clenched in a fist as triumph raced through him, but Voorhis remained still as he looked toward Var Emries. "Your majesty, it would be my very great honor to please you in this."

A sneer lit the Imperator's face then. "I'm sure it would, Morvran, but you'll have to convince my daughter she requires an emperor to share the throne and that you're the best man for the job. I won't force her in this."

It was Voorhis' turn to sneer. "It sounds like a challenge. I'll have my work cut out for me."

The emperor chuckled. Morvran couldn't remember the last time his sovereign had truly laughed.

"Indeed. But for now, let us set into motion the winning of this war." Emhyr signaled a young page at the other end of the room and ordered the royal scribe to be summoned. It was time to make his offer to Roche and set the ball rolling to take Novigrad out from under Radovid V The Stern.


	3. The Chameleon

_**October 10th 1272**_

Drummond wondered what hurt most, the four bruised ribs from a sparring session with Eskel, the lump on his face from a stick that Kozin had used as a practice sword this morning, or his ass. At least he wasn't running behind the horses today, trying to keep up with the witchers as they pushed his training forward. They had made him run every other day, chugging along at the ground eating pace Kozin had set. Both witchers had run with him intermittently, though neither had gone a whole day at the punishing clip. Eskel joked that his training days were long over and he had the luxury of pasting his ass to a saddle, hollering encouragement now. The boy considered his various sufferings and thought maybe it all hurt equally and he would be unfair to settle on a single misery as the worst.

The one consolation the Bear novitiate had was the promise of a tankard of cold ale and food he didn't have to cook at the Chameleon when he and his companions reached the city. The boy mourned that he didn't have coin for a roll in a brothel, even if whoring was a risk all on it's own without witcher mutations. Eskel and Kozin had regaled him with horror stories of mundane men contracting all sorts of diseases in the pursuit of carnal pleasures. The trick, they said, was to find a prostitute that was clean and whose clientele were limited so they weren't so likely to be poxy. Those, he was informed, were the really expensive ones, well beyond the boy's meager means.

Not that Drummond had ever lain with any woman, if he were to be honest. He had been a tender fourteen when he had joined the Temerian army three years ago, then grouped up with the Redanian Special Foot when the Lilies were crushed under Nilfgaard's heel last spring. He had killed men in the heat of battle but never ploughed a maid. Riding through the Hierarch Gate now, he thought that was one of the greater injustices in the world. Shaking his head, Drummond decided this line of thinking was a waste of time.

The witcher's apprentice wasn't so sunk in his own sorrows that he didn't notice Eskel had gotten more and more withdrawn the closer to the city they got. Not a loud man to begin with, by the time the three companions stood their horses outside the Hierarch Gate, the scarred witcher was brooding and silent, bunching Scorpion's reins in his hands.

"When was the last time ye were here, Es?" Asked the shaggy Bear quietly.

"Nine years ago." Drummond heard a raw note vibrating in the Wolf's words and wondered what had happened.

"Ye should visit her, ye know." Kozin's comment was made to the open sky before he slid his glance to his fellow witcher.

"What good would that do." Eskel growled, "Won't change the past or bring her back."

"Nay, but it might settle yer mind." Kozin pulled out his pipe and stuck it between his teeth, but thought better of a quick igni to light it this close to Novigrad. There were a lot of people on the road, including witch hunters and priests of the Fire, and a lot of charred corpses set on pikes along the way leading to the portcullis of the city. The air, even here outside the walls of the metropolis, hung thick with the sickly, cloying stench of burned flesh. The big Bear couldn't remember a time when things had been darker than they were now. He had seen wars come and go in his long life, but there was something malignant about the dying days of this Third Northern War that sent a shudder up his spine. He and the boy couldn't get to Skellige fast enough to suit him.

"Maybe later. Wanna see if Wolf and Ciri arrived yet" Murmured Eskel, "We should have rooms saved for us at the Chameleon."

A lively tune danced out from the band on the dais as serving girls wandered amongst the customers. Men and women, celebrating the end of a working day, sang a rousing chorus to a popular drinking song while stomping their feet on the floor. Kerrass sat at a table in a darkened corner, nursing a refreshingly cold ale and the beginnings of a vicious headache. He had arrived in Novigrad earlier in the day, reluctant to meet right away with Sigi Reuven, but knowing it was inevitable. Papers secreted in his satchel were ready to hand over to the mobster. In exchange, Reuven had promised information on the whereabouts of Jad Karadin and his children. Six weeks. It had been six weeks since his brother Cat had gone to ground with those kids of his, and a trail already difficult to follow was becoming more impossible with each passing day.

There was one absolute Kerrass had learned over the past month and a half. Sigi Reuven was no mere Novigradi mobster. The witcher's contact in Vizima stank of the Imperial court and the man he brought documents to in a cave in Velen was no less than Vernon Roche himself . Wheels within wheels ground the common man to dust and even the mighty had difficulty tracking their course. Kerrass was just a witcher who did his best to avoid politics, and he was not happy about being used as a courier or a spy. His head thumped in time to the beating drums as he considered the words Roche had sent him back to Novigrad with. "Tell Dijkstra it's a go." That was it. Who the hell was Dijkstra?

The Cat looked up from the dregs of his ale just in time to see Eskel, an old friend of his from the wolf school, enter the tavern alongside a huge, hairy man and a youth, both with two swords slung over their right shoulders. The Cat grunted to himself. A fresh faced witcher. That was new. The boy hadn't been mutated, though, so he really wasn't a full witcher. Kerrass wondered what the point was in dressing him like one. The rangy man watched as Eskel surveyed the room, a sneer lighting his face as he spied the Cat. Kerrass grinned back, remembering a drunken brawl followed by carousing through a bordello with the scarred man more than a decade past in Vizimia, before the wars had started.

"Kerrass." Said Eskel ambling up to the rangy Cat's table, clasping hands. "Looks like we have a damn witcher's conclave in the Chameleon. What brings you to Novigrad?" The witchers and the boy joined him as the Cat scowled into his empty tankard.

"Oiye, Drum! Make yer'self useful,boy. Get us a couple pitchers o' ale and order some food." Roared the shaggy man, "Need te shake the dust from me throat." The big witcher chuckled. "Pain in me ass that pup is. But there are benefits te havin' an apprentice. Kid puts his all inte it anyway." Kerrass noticed a bear medallion dangling at the giant man's breast. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a Bear on the Path.

"Kozin, Drummond, this is Kerrass." Murmured Eskel. "Good man, good witcher. Shared a few hunts in the past." Eskel grabbed two of the pitchers from the boy and passed one to the Cat as he made introductions.

"What are YOU doing here, Eskel? Don't you usually go to ground in your wolf den by this time in the season?" The Cat filled his tankard and took a long draw.

"Yeah, about that." Eskel and Kozin exchanged glances. It didn't take witcher senses to know a serious story was brewing and Kerrass leaned forward. The scarred witcher lowered his voice, ensuring that only the other mutants at the table, and the boy could hear him. "Kaer Morhen was attacked by a force from the Church. Had a hundred witch hunters and Redanian foot soldiers on our ass."

"About two weeks ago." Added the big Bear. "Not much left of the outer curtain wall now."

Kerrass whistled low through his teeth. "Did you lose anyone?"

"Jad Karadin died in the fighting. He was our only casualty. But the lead witch hunter fuck about killed another one of us." Eskel's voice was a vicious growl. "Friend of ours. Have to introduce you to her one day."

Kerrass couldn't figure out what was so funny about that as Kozin sneered and the boy hid a smile behind his tankard. Keeping his voice neutral, the rangy witcher asked, "What was Jad Karadin doing at Kaer Morhen?"

Eskel scowled and spit on the floor. Kozin answered the Cat's question. "Church fucks tortured Letitia to death in front of him and were ready to do for him, too, but he managed to escape and get his kids out of Novigrad."

Only by the tightening of his eyes did Kerrass betray the anger swirling through him. "I found priests and witch hunters at his house back at the end of August. Heard some ugly rumors." He swallowed, looking down at the table, ready to brace himself against more bad news. Deadening his voice completely, he ground out, "Greta and Tolly are OK?"

"Yeah." Said Eskel. "My brother Wolf, Lambert, is their ward now. Karadin asked him to take care of them with his dying breath."

Kerrass scratched his chin, riding the surge of relief he couldn't completely hide. "Why did the witch hunters attack you?"

Eskel spat again. "They're after witcher secrets. Seems they want to figure out how to make their own mutants, raise an army. As if they don't have enough power as it is." The scarred witcher's voice and face were bitter.

Kerrass was at a loss for words. Quick glances at Kozin and Drummond corroborated the Wolf's claim. "That's insane." Breathed the lean man, setting his tankard down on the tabletop with a 'thunk'.

They were interrupted with the arrival of food and more ale as Triss Merigold joined them. She wore a dark, nondescript dress and her hair was covered with the hood of her cloak.

"I wondered when you three were going to get here!" She exclaimed as she nudged Eskel to scoot over and give her room on the bench. "Did you have any trouble with the witch hunters on the way down?"

Eskel shook his head as he sipped his ale. "We kept to the wilds, avoided roads until we got to Novigrad. What about you? It's more dangerous for you here than for us."

"It's dangerous for everyone." The sorceress huffed. Then in a low voice even the witchers had to strain to catch. "I came in directly by portal. Dandelion has a convenient area cleared out in his wine cellar for us to use. Ensures we aren't observed." Her hazel eyes came to rest on the Cat. "Who's this?"

Eskel made the introductions. "Triss, meet Witcher Kerrass of Maecht. Kerrass, this is Triss Merigold."

The fourteenth of Sodden Hill, thought Kerrass. He knew of her by reputation and ballad alike. The lean witcher smiled charmingly at the sorceress. "The ballads paint you as beautiful, Miss Merigold. But they don't do you justice." Triss giggled and grinned at the him, drawing a faint scowl from Eskel that the scarred witcher hid in his cup.

"Hmm, Kozin and … Drummond is it?" Triss looked inquiringly at the witcher apprentice, who nodded. "We'll send you to Cerys An Crait at Kaer Trolde through a portal. Witch hunters are going through every ship leaving port with a fine toothed comb right now, and it's too dangerous for you to sail. We'll do it late tonight."

Kozin pinched the bridge of his nose. He never had liked traveling by portal. "Witch hunters. Damn Church o' the bloody fookin' Flames. Seriously puttin' a cramp in me arse." The big witcher's Skelligan accent got heavier as he growled.

"You and everyone else." Triss grabbed Eskel's tankard from him and took a sip of the brew, garnering a startled look from that witcher. "Things have gotten quantitatively worse since Geralt and Dijkstra helped get the mages out of Novigrad."

Kerrass watched the musicians, swirling his ale around in his cup. "Who's Dijkstra?" Suspicion had been building in his mind since he parted company with the Blue Stripe commandos and he didn't like the conclusions he was coming to.

"Former head of Redanian security. I wouldn't trust him with my secrets, but he saved my life and that of many of my friends." Triss smiled at the Cat. "He runs a bath house up near the Passiflora."

Only nodding, the lean witcher buried his scowl as he chugged his ale. He had wasted six weeks chasing across Temeria and the No Man's land of Velen as a spy's lackey. Had he just tracked Jad from Novigrad instead of running errands, he might have arrived at Kaer Morhen in time to save his brother's life. That didn't sit well in his gut, not well at all. It was time to pay the bastard a visit.

"Thanks for the food and chat, mates." The rangy witcher murmured as he swiveled off the bench. Got a contract I need to finish." He clasped hands with the men, then lifted the sorceress's hand to brush his lips over her knuckles and murmured, "A true pleasure to meet you, M'lady."

"Kerrass," said Triss, holding his eyes as he held her hand. "Come back here when you're done. I need you to do something for me, if you would be so kind."

Kerrass continued to hold her fingers lightly as his mouth twisted into an ironic grin. "Mmm" He purred in a low tone. "You have two and a half witchers at your disposal now. What do you need with a mangy old Cat like me?"

She smiled sadly. "It's a special contract and I think you'll agree you're the best man for the job when you find out what it is." She would say no more, however, and Kerrass agreed to return when he had seen to his contract. It was time to confront Reuven. No. Dijkstra. The rangy witcher's boot heels beat counterpoint to the music as he strode out of the Chameleon into the cold air of the Novigrad evening.

Eskel made his goodbyes as well, clasping hands with Kozin and Drummond as he prepared to leave the inn. "Good luck on the Path. I hope you find what, and who you're looking for." Said the scarred Wolf. "You know you always have a home at Kaer Morhen."

"Aye, Lad, we do. And maight take ye up on it. Ye'll hear from us in any case, soon as we get where we're going first." Kozin laid a meaty paw on Eskel's shoulder. "Ye take care o' yerself here in the north. Plan on getting reet drunk t'gether when next we gather."

Eskel chortled, finally turning toward the door. "I'll bring the vodka!" He left the big Bear talking quietly with Triss and the boy, walking out into the chilly October air.

Seemingly aimlessly, the witcher wandered the twisting, dirty streets of the city, stopping at a merchant's cart to buy a bottle of wine and a wreath of paper flowers. He eventually ended his wanderings at a small pauper's grave on the outskirts of the Bits. The marker was still there, though the grave hadn't been well tended and was covered in the brittle remains of last summer's weeds. Eskel crouched, pulling here and there at the dead vegetation, remembering how her eyes had shone when he would come to her. Sorrow welled inside him and he started to murmur as he took a pull from the bottle.

"I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner. Wish you would have told me what was happening when I was there that June. I would have put a stop to it then and Beal would never have touched you again." Eskel sat, then, resting a hand on the earth that covered her. "After I found out what he did, I made sure he would never touch anyone ever again. If I had known then the things I know now, I would have taken you away from Kate's the first time I met you, but I don't know if I could have kept you any safer." Eskel's voice roughened as he spoke, pulling the paper flowers out of his satchel and laying them over her. He crushed the wreath as his hand balled into a fist in the dirt. Taking a deep breath, he stood. "Forgive me, Prim. For not being the man you thought I was." The scarred witcher turned and the words on the headstone burned into his back as he strode away.

 _Primrose of Crippled Kate's_

 _1248-1264_

 _May the earth lay lightly upon her  
_


	4. Of Spies and Witchers

Sigi Reuven, otherwise known as Sigismund Dijkstra, lounged in the steaming water of the bath. His leg hurt abominably as the temperature outside dropped. Cold seeped over the land with the beginning of winter and he cursed Geralt of Rivia for giving him such an accurate weather vane. Deliah, the newest bath girl, kneaded his calf with strong fingers, eliciting groans of pleasure from the large man. Watching through slitted eyes, his vision dancing over the lush curve of her breasts and hips. Dijkstra thought idly about pulling her into his lap and satisfying the pleasant itch that was starting low in his belly, but the steady "drip drip" of condensed water off the fixtures was lulling him to drowse in the heady warmth arising from the pool. He would have her later, he decided with a lazy smile, allowing his eyes to drift shut. A sudden click at the door brought him fully awake as another servant peeked into the room.

"What is it." The big man ground out, annoyed to be so disturbed.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Master Reuven, sir," mumbled the servant, "But the witcher's returned."

"Which one?" Dijkstra pulled his foot out of Deliah's gentle care and shooed her away as he stood to his feet in water that lapped his hips.

"Si…. Sir?" Stammered the servant.

"You blithering idiot." The big spy ground out through clenched teeth as he put weight on his sore leg. Hauling his nearly seven foot bulk out of the stone bath, the spy wrapped a bath sheet around his massive body. "There IS more than one of them, you know. Didn't you bother to get his name?"

A lean man prowled in behind the servant, growling, "I didn't tell him my name, Reuven. Or should I call you Dijkstra?" His eyes glittered gold in the soft gloom, but his expression gave nothing away.

"Deliah, be a love now and run off with you." Dijkstra instructed the bath girl as he padded to a table laden with wine and fruit. "Kerrass, it's a delight, it really is. Was your trip productive? Care for some wine?" Everluce flowed into a beautifully chiseled pink quartz crystal flute from an open demijohn. Casually, the spy held it out to the witcher. Kerrass declined with a bare shake of his head and, shrugging, Dijkstra took the delicate aperitif for himself, savoring it's bouquet before sipping the blood red liquid.

"Didn't come here to drink, just want Karadin's letter." Idly, the Cat leaned against a pillar, pulling a dagger and inspecting the edge for nicks.

Finishing his wine, the spy set the delicate flute down. "Do you then? What did you bring in exchange, witcher? As I said when you were here last - nothing is ever free." The big man pulled his clothing on as he spoke, his words muffled for a moment as he donned a shirt. "What did Roche say?"

"You get that information when I get Karadin's letter." Countered the Cat, in a bored tone. Dijkstra sighed and motioned for Kerrass to follow as he limped to his book lined office. Pulling the letter from a drawer, the spy turned to the witcher and leered. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

Kerrass only grunted. Never breaking eye contact, he fished a sheaf of documents out of his satchel, handing them over as he accepted the sealed envelope from the big man. Tucking it into his bag, he turned to go.

"And Roche?" Dijkstra asked offhandedly, his voice a deadly purr.

Kerrass stopped in his tracks, his back to the spy. "He said 'It's a go'" the rangy Cat threw behind him as he reached for the door.

"I have another job for you, if you're interested in making some coin." The quiet words echoed in the room as the witcher paused on the threshold. Kerrass didn't turn around, but his gaze was piercing as he looked over his shoulder. The spy sneered. "Are you familiar with the LaVallette family?" Dijkstra's question was deceptively conversational as he straightened the documents and slid them into a drawer, shooting the witcher a veiled look.

"No." Despite himself, the witcher felt inclined to hear more and turned.

Inspecting the fingernails of his left hand, Dijkstra murmured, "Some say that Maria Louisa LaVallette's children were the rightful progeny of the old baron. But really, it was Foltest who sired them on her during their affair." The spy's snort of disgust sank into the spines of the books around him, absorbed by worn leather. "Other than Adda the White, Anaise and Boussy were his only get. Of course, Adda is a simpleton and entirely ineligible to continue Foltest's line, even if she IS married to Radovid."

The rangy Cat was getting impatient with the monologue. "Get to the point."

"Patience, Kerrass." Tutted the big man as if to a recalcitrant student. "Adda hasn't quickened in the two years of her marriage. In fact, she hasn't been seen publicly at all since shortly after the wedding. Her half brother, Boussy, was killed last year and now Anaise remains, the only viable and legitimate heir to the Temerian throne, Radovid's claims notwithstanding."

Dijkstra turned to a bookshelf, running his finger over the spines of the books. Pulling out a tome, he handed it to the witcher. "I need you to find the little girl. She would be five? Maybe six years old now. Geralt of Rivia and Vernon Roach handed her over to John Natalis for safe keeping." The big man dropped his chin in his hand. "Of course, no one has seen Netalis since last winter when Nilfgaard broke Temerian defenses in the mountains near the Dol Blathana-Mount Carbon line."

Kerrass accepted the book and scoffed. "'Blood and Succession'. Dry study, even if I was so inclined to read it." His brows drew together, as if he were trying to work out a difficult sum. "What do you want with the girl?"

Sigismund Dijkstra's grin was nasty. "That's a special edition, well worth your time to get into it. It's my gift to you whether you accept the contract or not." A bitter laugh echoed off the shelves, stirring dust into the air. "What I want with Foltest's whelp is neither here nor there, but considering the state of the war I'm sure you can guess. Let's just say I hate leaving loose ends. They tend to trip people up down the road at the worst possible times."

"What's in it for me?" Kerrass asked, a sarcastic twist to his lips.

"Money, fame and the knowledge you helped establish peace and prosperity when this bloody war is at an end." Answered Dijkstra.

The lean man grunted as he shrugged his shoulders. "Fame and renown are fine for some, but I prefer cash. How much does the job pay?"

Dijkstra shook his head. "A man of business. I can appreciate that." He tapped his chin then sat at his desk. Writing a number down on a square of parchment, he handed it to the witcher.

Kerrass looked at the sum and slowly raised one eyebrow. "Your kidding, right? Triple that and maybe some witcher might consider it."

"Really?" Dijkstra said, leaning back, scowling. "That seems excessive to me."

"It's winter, the trail is cold by a year, and the prime suspect went missing from a bloody battlefield." Kerrass shrugged holding the spy's outraged glare. "Frankly, my Path leads in a different direction altogether, so I'm afraid you'll have to leave me right out of the fun."

The big spy sighed and shuffled around to recline in his wing chair. "I was afraid you might say that." A cheroot was pulled out of a box on the desk and lit. "Perhaps one of the other witchers at the Chameleon would be interested in the job. I'm sure I can count on your discretion, yes?"

The witcher said in his drollest tone, "I'm always discreet." Then nodding his farewell, he turned and left Sigismund Dijkstra staring after his retreating back. His boots made no sound as he slipped into the cold October night, taking steady breaths to beat his ire into submission. Kerras had deeply resented being used in a game of cloak and dagger and he allowed himself the luxury of an ugly sneer as he wandered around the city.

True, he could have used the money from the contract to set himself up comfortably for a good while, but he was heartily sick of dealing with politics. He was a witcher, not some government agent set to change the course of kingdoms. The lean man's hand crept to his medallion, rubbing the silvered snarling feline in his fist. Witchers were not soldiers, mercenaries or assassins. When his brothers forgot that cardinal rule they ushered in the final downfall of the Cat School.

Deep in thought, Kerrass found himself before the standing stone behind the Temple of Eternal Flame. Kneeling and allowing the power to fill him, he thought of his brethren. VarEmris had razed the seat of the feline witchers only a couple of years ago and put out a bounty on the head of any Cat that showed himself in the empire. How many of them were left? He had been closest to Jad, though the man had fallen into bad company and followed a crooked path for far too long. Letitia had been his salvation, pulling Karadin away from the slave trade and that gang he had run with. Kerrass grieved the loss of his brother. Perhaps in the spring he would travel to Kaer Morhen and pay his respects. Few enough witchers ever had a cairn to mark their final resting place and the Cat found himself glad that Karadin was one of them.

Arising, he walked back to the Chameleon, staying to the shadows and avoiding others who wandered the streets at this late hour. His coin was low, but he decided to rent lodgings for the night and meet with Miss Merigold. The sorceress had intimated the contract was one he wouldn't want to turn down. Kerrass ambled into the Chameleon, heading toward the barman to bespeak a bed.

Intercepting him before he could pay for the room, the flamboyant owner of the establishment presented Kerrass with a key and invited him to stay for as long as he wished. Dandelion was decked out in plum colored silk pantaloons that matched an elaborate waistcoat embroidered with gold and red peacocks. Carnelian fabric peeked out from the multitude of slashes in his shirt sleeves and was echoed by a jaunty feather set at a raffish angle in his cap.

"Compliments of the house." The gaily attired owner explained. "A friend of Triss Merigold is a friend of mine. You won't find any bias against witchers in my establishment." Dandelion gave him a bright and winsome smile, pointing up the stairs. "Third room on the right. Triss is waiting for you two doors down."

Pocketing the key, Kerrass dropped his kit on the bed before meeting with the sorceress. She was sitting at a table, reading some weighty tome, when she called him to enter.

"Ahh, Kerrass." She smiled at him, bidding him take the only chair as she perched on the end of the bed facing him. As she gazed at him, her expression turned somber and her words came with difficulty.

"You know that Letitia Karadin was tortured to death by witch hunters." She shuddered, folding her arms around herself. "When Jad escaped, he took her body and hid it somewhere on the cliffs." She whispered an incantation and brought up an image in the air showing the cave for him.

Kerrass looked carefully at the projection the sorceress had conjured. "Any idea where that is precisely?" He asked as the door swung open behind him.

"Temple Isle. I know the place." Growled a low voice as the White Wolf stepped into the room.

"Geralt! When did you get in?" The sorceress exclaimed.

"Just now. Ciri's with Yen. " The Wolven witcher eyed the Cat with surprise. "Kerrass of Maecht, what are you doing in Novigrad this time of year?"

"Accepting a contract from the charming Miss Merigold." Kerrass stood and extended a hand.

Geralt clasped the proffered arm then turned to study the projection. "Mmm. What do you need there?"

"It's where Jad Karadin left his wife's body when he fled Novigrad in August." Said Triss "Keira contacted me, asking if we could send someone to retrieve Letitia's remains and take them to Kaer Morhen."

The Wolf nodded thoughtfully. "I can give you directions to the cave. Though if you'll be porting a body, you might want to go at it from the water rather than from the top of the Isle. A boat would come in handy to manage the transport."

Kerrass nodded, then turning to Triss, he spoke softly "I'll take care of this as soon as it gets light in the morning."

"When you return, we'll send you to Kaer Morhen by portal." The sorceress tipped a smile when Kerrass scowled at the mention of magical travel. She said, "The passes closed a week ago and aren't likely to open back up till spring."

"Come on." Growled Geralt. "I'll draw you a map over a pint of ale." The two witchers descended the stairs and found an empty table in a darkened corner of the taproom. They sat in silence for a time, letting the laughter and song of many voices flow around them before discussing the best approach to the cave.

"There's been a lot of activity up on Temple isle recently, so approaching from the top without being noticed could be a challenge." Geralt grated as he told the Cat what he had found there.

Sighing, Kerrass murmured, "Kiyan. That's a name I haven't heard in decades. Hell of a way to go."

The witchers crashed their tankards together in a toast to fallen brothers, drinking to their memories. Geralt stood, nodding to the Cat, taking his leave as Kerrass perused the map and considered his options. Scouting the cave first would be best, he decided. He folded the map and tucked it into his satchel where his fingers brushed Dijkstra's book.

' _What the hell,'_ he thought, _'might as well take a look.'_

His scowl deepened with each page he turned. The Church of the Eternal Fire was sticking its fingers into all the pies on the table, it seemed. It was one thing to allow himself to be used as a courier between Dijkstra and Emperor Emhyr, quite another to willingly take part in shaping of nations and the crowning of regents. Geralt of Rivia might walk that Path, but Kerrass didn't want to take a step there. Still ... the rangy man's jaw bunched as he thought of his fencing master. Daetrik had been a ruthless man and a wicked swordsman, but he had also been wise to the world. What was it he used to say? _"Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act. Everything has consequences, so don't get lazy and let events happen to you. Engage and be proactive."_

Running a finger along the edge of the book's binding, Kerrass decided his Path didn't lead him toward Anaise LaVallette, but the information might be useful to another. He would give the book to Eskel. Determining to find the scarred witcher in the morning, he left the taproom to seek his bed for the night.

* * *

The dark haired Wolf was tucking into a big plate of rashers, eggs and fried potatoes early the next morning when Kerrass left his room in search of breakfast. Except for the scarred man, the taproom was empty in the glimmering twilight that augured a stormy morning. Joining the Wolven witcher, the rangy Cat signaled a serving wench for more food and drink.

"Heading out?" Mumbled his companion around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"Yeah." Kerrass leaned back as a plate piled high with food and a full tankard of cold ale were slid in front of him by a saucy wench that gave him a wink. He grinned and winked back before attacking his food. On the road, he didn't know from one day to the next if he would be eating lean or not at all, so he took advantage of good cooking when he could. The Chameleon's chef was amazingly talented and the food was sublime. A witcher could get spoiled.

"They seem to like us here." Murmured Kerrass, savoring his meal. "It's a nice change from the usual."

Eskel sneered. "We can thank Geralt for that. He and Dandelion have been friends for years."

They were silent for a time as they ate, then talked of where their Paths had led them in the years since they had caroused through Vizima, chuckling over stories of contracts and comparing new scars. Finally, the Cat pulled out the book and slid it to Eskel.

"Got that from Dijkstra last night. I'm headed in a different direction, but it might be of interest to you." The Wolf flipped open the first page and scanned a few lines. Whistling, he tucked it into his satchel and raised an eyebrow.

"Politics isn't usually my thing either. I'm just a simple witcher, but yeah, seems there's more going on than idiots trying to make their own mutants. This is just the kind of information I need." Eskel scratched the back of his head, tugging on his dark ponytail. "Used to be things were so much simpler."

Kerrass nodded in agreement, rising to leave as Geralt joined them. The Cat made his farewells and headed out into the stormy morning. Eskel downed the dregs of his ale and regarded the other Wolf.

"What do Triss and Yen have you doing today?" The scarred man asked, sliding the pitcher toward the white haired witcher.

Geralt groaned and looked around the empty taproom. Ensuring they weren't overheard, and despite the empty room, he kept his voice low enough that Eskel had to strain to hear him. "They want to reconvene the Lodge of Sorceresses, convinced it's the best way to defeat the Wild Hunt once and for all."

Eskel whistled through his teeth and looked longingly into his empty cup. "That's bold, all things considered."

"Being in this city at all is bold. Yen tells me she and Triss have their exit plan, but the witch hunters captured Ida and Margarite despite their precautions. Phillipa is in hiding, but it's only a matter of time till she's found." Geralt ran a hand over his face. "I'll be relieved when all of this is over and both Yen and Triss are safe, far away from here."

A lass with ashen hair and a prominent scar on her face walked to their table and Eskel grinned. Ciri nudged in next to the dark haired witcher, grabbing the pitcher and peering inside it. "The least you could have done is gotten two pitchers, Es. This one's bone dry."

The serving wench was summoned for more food and ale as Geralt pinned his brother with a gimlet stare. "What are you doing here, Eskel? Novigrad isn't your usual stomping grounds, and definitely not in the middle of winter."

The scarred witcher sighed. "Don't want to add to your worries. You two have enough on your hands just now."

"You aren't going to just shuffle us off like that!" Cried Ciri. "Is … is it Vesemir? He was mending when we left Kaer Morhen …" Her face went as white as her hair.

"No, no. Vesemir is fine." Eskel hurried to comfort the girl. Then he sighed, his eyes tracing the path of dustmotes in the tenebrous illumination of the tap room before closing in resignation. "We were attacked by a large contingent of witch hunters and Redanian foot soldiers about two, maybe three weeks ago." Eskel could hear the ceramic of his brother's tankard strain as the White Wolf's hand tightened around it.

Ciri looked stricken and contrite. "We should have been there. We shouldn't have run off."

"Did we lose anyone? Lambert? Keira?" Geralt's voice was a study in neutrality, only the telltale tightening of his eyes revealed any emotion.

"Jad Karadin died in the battle. He entrusted his kids to Lambert with his dying breath." The hush of feet entering the room interrupted them as the front door opened to the cabaret's first customers of the day. The wind blew in, cold and wet, promising a long, soaking and bitterly cold rain.

Geralt turned away from the patrons arranging themselves at far table and relaxed visibly, chuckling. "Lambert? A daddy? What, they're his destiny now?" Ciri shot him a dirty look. The White Wolf only shrugged. "He always said he avoided the law of surprise. Guess it snuck up on him after all. I suppose we'll be training those two as witchers."

"Well, they'll get the training, like Ciri did." Eskel sneered at the girl affectionately. "But dunno about mutations. No one really wants to reinstate the trials, except the Church." Eskel filled his companions in on what they knew about the activities of the witch hunters.

"What about, what's her name? Micah? The hunters didn't get all the way to her lab, did they?" Geralt asked.

Eskel rubbed his chin and scowled. "No, the lab is safe, though she was hurt pretty bad in the fighting. She'll live."

The companions spoke for a time, Geralt and Cir regaling the scarred man about their journey to Bald Mountain and the confrontation with the Crones and Imelrith. The conversation turned to the Church of the Eternal Fire and the witch hunters. Geralt pointed Eskel toward some contacts in the city who were associated, but not necessarily sympathetic with the direction the cult had recently taken. When they had fallen into a comfortable silence for a time, Eskel stood and took his leave. It was time to ferret out answers and he had a feeling his Path started with Dijkstra.

* * *

 _ **The quote that Kerrass remembers his fencing instructor as saying is, in real life, attributed to Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Though not corroborated as his in any of his publications, sermons or by personal witness, considering Bonhoeffer's activities against Hitler and the 3rd Reich, I can imagine him expressing the sentiments at any time. The quote in full is:**_

 _ **"Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act."**_


	5. Rain and Snow

Icy wind blew through Novigrad's streets as sheets of rain set in to chill body and soul under a leaden sky. Kerrass hunched into his cloak, pulling the woolen folds around himself both for protection from the elements and to give himself a semblance of anonymity. There weren't many people about the city today, most finding it an ideal time to stay close to their hearthfires. Chimney stacks were bleeding smoke that curled close to the ground, hazing the streets and hindering his vision. At least the rain cleansed the stench of burned human and humanoid flesh from the air. On a whim, he ducked into a general mercantile and purchased two medium sized sacks and a small whisk broom with matching dust pan. Stowing his purchases out of the way on his person, he set off once again for Temple Isle.

The lean witcher found the cliffs in less than an hour and slipped behind a well appointed townhouse, using its hedge for cover. The rocks were slick and treacherous but he managed to find the cave with little problem. The smell of chared flesh was redolent in the cold air as he delved inside. The remains of two humanoids lay on the floor, there was still enough of them to determine which was which. There was no sign of necrophage activity, nor had anything more threatening been drawn to the cave in search of food and the witcher was glad he didn't have to unsheath either sword.

Kerrass looked around the cavern, and realized there wasn't enough wood to build a pyre sufficient for one of the corpses, let alone both of them. He could utterly incinerate them with igni, but depending entirely on the sign would take time and dangerously sap his strength. Kerrass dipped into one of his many pouches and pulled out a small phial of blue liquid, swirling it around and watching as it caught the light from the entrance. Like all witcher potions, it enhanced his abilities, but it came at a price. The witcher knelt, closing his eyes, slowing his breathing as he began his meditation. He cleared his mind of distractions, distancing himself from the cold seeping into the chamber and the wetness that swirled along the inside of one boot. Sinking into a state that some might call an altered consciousness, the Cat prepared himself for the unpleasant task ahead, divorcing his emotions from what he was about to do. When his body and mind had reached a state of readiness, he opened his eyes and quaffed the philter.

Had he wanted to describe the taste to an observer, he would have said it was a combination of horse piss, cadaverine and fine whisky. Burning a trail to his gut, it slid down his throat like snot and reacted with his stomach acid, allowing it to be absorbed into his blood stream immediately. Kerrass felt the buzz under his flesh as it tingled along his veins, making them stand out dark against his paling skin. Lightning prickled up his spine and danced at the base of his skull as the effects settled in, shooting brief, bright sparks of pain along his nerve endings until it modulated into a mild hypersensitivity to the currents of force that flowed within him. Breathing deeply, he stood and approached Letitia's remains and shaped the igni sign with his right hand. As he kept up the steady stream of fire, he remembered to breath through the casting. The woman's body took three more sustained bursts of igni before he was satisfied with the results; even with the enhancement of the potion, the witcher felt the drain on his reserves before he had reduced her to ash and bits of bone.

Incinerating Kiyan required another dose of the vile concoction and a total of six rounds of igni that left Kerrass pale, shaking and ready to puke. The frigid air in the cavern made coming down from the philter that much worse, and the rangy Cat stumbled to an empty hearth, gathering debris from a broken bookshelf to make a fire. Channeling one last burst of igni through his depleted reserves, he set the old wood ablaze and huddled close, digging for another potion he had stashed in a pocket. If Petri's Philter could be likened to cadaverine and horse piss, then White Honey was it's exact opposite, only sickly sweet enough to make him gag and grimace. Detoxification, even with the help of the potion, was painful. Ice-licked thorns buzzed just under his skin and the lightning that pricked at his skull felt more like the miniscule scratching of a thousand millipedes trying to dig their way their way out of his head. Retching and shuddering, the Cat rode out the effects over the course of the next hour before he was able to settle back into a meditative state and regather himself. Finally, the witcher was ready to finish the job he had started.

He arose, swiping a hand down his face as he began to break apart the woman's remains. Kerrass divorced his mind from the task at hand, refusing to acknowledge that what he was reducing to chunks of charcoal and ash had once been the sweet and vivacious Letitia Karadin. She had always been so kind to him and he had envied Jad the fortune of marrying her. Some distant corner of his mind howled in outrage, but he shut it away and locked the gate where it dwelt, refusing to give in to its roaring madness. When he had gathered as much of the dusty remains as he possibly could, he knelt with his head in his hands for a while as moisture gathered behind his eyelids, reaching for calm and battering back the emotions that seeped out of the cage. Finally, with a modicum of his control restored, the lean man turned to the other body.

Somehow, Kiyan's remains were easier to deal with. Kerrass hadn't really known the other witcher, who had been decades older than himself. A face, the memory of a voice telling some joke one winter and an ardent passion for dice poker was all the Cat could bring to mind about the man. Still, when the time was appropriate, he would mourn his brother Cat and ensure he had a cairn of his own.

As Kerrass prepared to return to the Chameleon, his precious burdens tied securely under his cloak, he turned and walk to the mouth of the cave. The pelting rain had turned into a frigid downpour obscuring everything beyond a five foot radius. The witcher stood, letting it wash over his face and hands, cleansing the soot and pain away until he could climb back up into the city.

* * *

Eskel returned to his room upstairs, leaving the ever growing crowd in the Chameleon's taproom to the jangle of plates and tankards. The scarred Wolf sat on the edge of his bed and read the thin book Kerrass had given to him. There wasn't much to it, really, just twelve pages of text interspersed with drawings and schematics that seemed to be reports from an informant within the inner circle of the Eternal Fire. The Church was searching for Anaise LaValette; the most logical explanation was they wished to use her to set up a puppet state in the remains of Temeria.

' _Does this have anything to do with the attack on Kaer Morhen?'_ Eskel wondered as he chewed over the information. Geralt had said the mutagens were used up in Javed's mad experiments and, for now, the secret instruction manuals were well hidden, but the witch hunters would have just dug in at the keep and torn the valley apart to find them if they had won.

The Church wanted to set up a Theocratic state with a figurehead monarch, it seemed, a state in which being different was illegal and punishable by death, with a mutated security force to enforce those laws. He knew what that meant for himself and his friends, and more, what it would eventually mean for every rank peasant that suffered under such a realm. Piss off the wrong person and you would find yourself in the flames. They would persecute and abuse anyone they decided was too weak to fight back. After the witchers and the magic users were gone, after the non humans had been pushed to extinction, after all opposition had either been subsumed or eliminated, there would be no one left to stand in the gap for the common person.

All his adult life, Eskel done his best to stay out of politics and petty squabbles. Witchers had been made to fight monsters and protect people from their ravages, not as a sword arm for kings. The scarred witcher had watched as Geralt got pulled in and used by the mighty, and it wasn't a Path he wanted to walk. He stood and tucked the book back in his satchel, ensuring his scabbards were well secured to his back as he threw his cloak on. Sometimes a witcher didn't get to choose his Path, it chose him instead and he had to follow it the best he could. Stretching as he gained his feet, Eskel made a decision. He simply couldn't afford to remain neutral, not as long as the Church of the Eternal Flame sent it's witch hunters to destroy everything he held dear. As he walked out of the Chameleon, into the cold rain, the memory of Prim's smiling blue eyes followed him.

* * *

Kerrass headed directly back to the Chameleon after gaining the streets on Temple Isle, feeling the cold settling into his bones. Stowing the sacks with his saddlebags, he set about cleaning the grime meticulously from his armor and weapons. The Cat held up his last jug of White Gull and thought about visiting an herbalist later in the day to get the ingredients to make more. The alcohol was the primary base for most of the potions he used on a regular basis, but it also worked wonderfully well for cleaning his armor and weapons. Setting aside his gear after a thorough detailing, the witcher headed downstairs with clean clothes balled up in his fist to bespeak one of the inn's bathing rooms. He desperately felt the need to scrub the events of the morning from his hide.

After soaking in pleasingly hot water, his body cleansed and renewed, Kerrass went in search of miss Merigold to discuss his departure from Novigrad. Knocking on her door, he waited till the sorceress bade him come in, then found her speaking with an ashen haired girl.

"Why shouldn't I go with him? He could use the help, Triss." The young woman said, pacing the small room as the Cat entered.

"Ciri, it's best for you to lay low here." Triss reasoned. "We survived the attack at Kaer Morhen, but you know the reason you've been traveling by mundane means. Eredin would raze the city if he knew how poorly guarded you are here."

Ciri turned toward the witcher as he entered and studied Kerrass out of the greenest eyes he had ever seen. Despite the scar marring her left cheek she was a lovely young lady, coming into the full flush of her womanhood.

"Who are you?" Her question was simple and unabashedly direct.

The corner of Kerrass' mouth twitched into a charming grin as he made a chivalrous bow to her. "Kerrass of Maecht, m'lady. And you?"

Ciri chuckled and shook her head him. "I'm Ciri." She noticed his cat's head medallion, her face turning somber as she took his hand. "I'm sorry for the loss of your brother Cat." Pain flickered in her face and her voice was hushed and her gaze seemed to beg his forgiveness. "If Geralt and I had stayed instead of running off …." She blinked rapidly, then continued. "Eskel told us he died defending Kaer Morhen. I really didn't get to know him."

Kerrass' grin slipped, but he raised her fingers to lay a brief kiss there. "You had your own Path to walk." His words were soft, but earnest. "I know Jad wouldn't want you feeling guilty that he's joined his beloved Letitia. At least he has a marked grave. Most witchers never get that much."

Ciri took a deep breath and looked down at the floor as her hand dropped to her side, shying away from the harsh possibility in store for the men she loved most in the world. With a quick glance at the sorceress, the girl stepped to the door. "I'll talk to you later, Triss. It was a pleasure to meet you, Kerrass." With that, she was gone, leaving the Cat alone with the red headed woman. The witcher knew he hadn't imagined the bleak look in her young eyes.

Triss rose to her feet, facing him, compassion in her voice. "You found Letitia?"

The Cat nodded as he kept his expression carefully neutral. "If you'll give me a few hours, I have some errands I need to run here before I go. What time would be best for you, m'lady?"

"Please, no m'lady-ing me. All my friends call me Triss, and I hope I can count you among them." The sorceress smiled at him charmingly, taking the rangy Cat a little aback. Looking out the window toward a lowering sun hidden by a leaden sky, the woman hummed to herself as she thought. "I think mid morning tomorrow would be sufficient. I don't want to dump you on the road to Kaer Morhen after dark. Keira told me the damage to the curtain walls is extensive and getting in to the fortress is somewhat treacherous now even during the day."

Kerrass nodded, remembering the keep well. "It's been a while since I've been there. Spent a lot of time in the lower court yard practicing with Eskel about five years back."

Triss looked back at the lean witcher, then smiled. "Will you want to stay the winter there, or come back here?"

He joined her at the window as the rain continued to pour down, mixed with some spitting snow, making a sodden mess of the streets. "I think I'll stay at Kaer Morhen. Not much reason to stay in the city, and Novigrad in winter is rather bleak."

She nodded. "There's an abandoned farmstead about five miles outside the gates. We'll meet there at 10 of the bells tomorrow morning and send you through a portal."

"Don't like portals." Growled the Cat on a scowl.

Triss looked up at him and shook her head. "You and every other witcher I've ever met." She sighed. "It can't be helped, though since the passes are closed."

The witcher and sorceress spoke for a little while longer, finalizing their plans. In addition to Kiyan's and Letitia's remains, he would be taking correspondence, supplies for the keep and some gifts for Tolly and Greta that Kozin had left with Triss. After bidding her farewell, Kerrass left his soiled clothing with the inn's laundress, donned his spare cloak and ventured into the stormy twilight once more.

The temperature had dropped precipitously since he had returned from the cliffs and fat flakes of snow had finally replaced the rain, swirling down to dance in the streets. Kerrass breath frosted in the air as he ambled along. Soon, the city would be blanketed in a layer of winter and bitter temperatures would drive all the beggars, orphans and prostitutes, to find what warm shelter they could in their harsh lives. Witchering was hard, dangerous work and most folks were suspicious of him, or even outright hostile to his face, but he wouldn't trade it to be a commoner. Had he not been taken for a witcher, the lean man figured he would have ended up much like these lost souls, seeking whatever comfort could be found in ragged corners.

Shaking himself out of these uncharacteristic, maudlin thoughts, Kerrass sucked down a bracing breath of cold air. During his last visit to Novigrad, he had made the acquaintance of a lovely flower at the Passiflora and the Cat decided it would be pleasant to spend a few hours getting to know her better. After some time searching the merchant district he was was lightly burdened with some gifts for Jad's children that rested in his satchel next to a pretty bauble for Stacia. He thought the offering would please the girl along with a bottle of wine and a box of Beauclair chocolates the merchant traded him for some old books he had been carting around. Making a final stop at the barber shop, the witcher headed for the brothel with a spring in his step despite the freezing weather.


	6. Winter's Path

"Tell Dijkstra a Wolf is here to see him." Said Eskel to the servant peering at him from the door grille.

"A Wolf, sir?" Squeaked the man.

"You heard me." Growled the witcher as he planted himself, arms across his chest, in front of the heavy, oaken door and counted sixty-five beats of his heart before he was summoned inside. Eskel found Dijkstra clucking quietly at a snowy owl shackled to a wooden stand by dimetirum bands.

The big spy turned at the interruption and looked pointedly at Eskel's medallion, scowling at the scarred witcher. "Another Wolf, eh. You ploughin' witchers decided to invade my city." Sand grinding in a gear shaft sounded sweeter than the spy's voice. "Where's Geralt?"

"Busy." Replied Eskel easily. Sigismund Dijkstra lived up to every tale the White Wolf had ever told about him.

"You seem to know who I am, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure." Dijkstra shoved a ham like hand toward Eskel, nodding when the scarred witcher clasped it.

"Name's Eskel. I hear you're offering a contract."

Dijkstra nodded. "Take a seat." The big spy sank into a large chair behind the desk and leaned forward, his brow beetled. "Who'd you hear it from?"

Eskel, entirely at ease in his own skin, lounged with his ankles crossed, inspecting the fingertips of one gloved hand. "Friend of mine gave me your book."

"Ah, Kerrass." Sneering as the Wolf shrugged, the spy poured two fingers of vodka into a glass and handed them to the witcher. "Yes, I have a contract for you. Find Anais La Valette and bring her to me." Sipping his own drink, Dijkstra pulled a piece of folded cardstock out of the desk and slid it toward Eskel.

"Hmm" Eskel did some sums in his head. "Reward is a bit on the slim side, considering how old the trail is and the fact it's winter. Bit cold to just curl up by the side of the road and inns cost money." Scratching his chin, the witcher thought for a moment. "You even know if the child is still alive? A year's gone by since Geralt and Roche gave her to John Natalis."

"Part of what I'm hiring you to find out." Another jigger of vodka flowed into their glasses as candle light flickered in the spaces between them. "Either bring Anais back here, alive, or bring me proof of her death. Either way, you'll get paid."

Eskel settled in to haggle his fee with the spymaster and they dickered back and forth over the witcher's basic operating costs and expected profit, finally coming to an agreement. Dijkstra handed the scarred Wolf a stack of expense vouchers, tucking a signed bank note into the desk, safely held against the completion of the contract.

"You drive a hard bargain and, frankly, I'd rather haggle with Geralt. You better be worth what this is costing me." The spy glared at the dark Wolf , his eyes hard and glittering. "You said you would take an advance in place of a bonus at the end of the contract. What kind of advance."

Staring at the bookshelves behind the Dijkstra, Eskel palmed his chin. "I want to talk to your informant. See what else they might know about the witch hunters."

"I can arrange the meeting. I try not to stick my nose into Church business too often, if you know what I mean. It'd be very inconvenient having to dodge the pyres if they took a dislike to me." The big spy pulled out another piece of heavy vellum and jotted a few lines then folded it, pressing his signet into the black wax. "Take that to the Putrid Grove. Tell the guard at the door 'the old sow's farrowed piglets' and he'll let you in. Give him this note and you'll get your meeting."

Eskel took his leave, tucking the note safely inside his gambeson as he ambled out of the bathhouse. The lowering sky was heavy with rain turning to sleet, matching his mood. He made his way to the sleazy, run down district that housed the lowest order of classes in the city, though some would argue they were also the freest souls in Novigrad. The Wolf decided he wasn't fit to judge, as he found his way to the door and spoke to the guard, growling the password in a low voice and ducking his head inside his hooded cloak.

"Welcome brother." Hinges creaked as the heavy portcullis swung open on home turf of the city's underbelly. Handing over Dijkstra's note, the witcher waited as the guard examined the parchment, observed his face paling ever so slightly on inspecting the black seal.

"Niss," The guard gestured at a nearby waif, "take the witcher to the King's court. Hand this note to no one but his Royal Highness. Understand?" Dark curls bobbing as the little girl nodded, she took the letter and led Eskel down a narrow, muddy lane. The Wolf stalked behind, every sense alert for trouble that lurked just beyond his periphery. A shanty at the bottom of a dead end lane marked their destination and the pair entered a cozy, well kept abode offering the homespun comfort of a crackling fire in the grate and the aroma of beef and cabbage wafting from a pot bubbling over the cheery flames.

"Ahh, Nissy, what have you brought me, poppet?" Ragged leather trousers and a patched gambeson graced the form of the bald man who held out his hand for Dijkstra's missive. Dismissing Nissy, the Beggar King read the note, then tapped the edge of the velum as he regarded Eskel.

"I'm Francis Bedlam. Some call me the King of Beggars, if beggars can have a king." Bedlam shrugged carelessly. "And you're the witcher Eskel. I heard a tale, not long ago, of a young girl who died at the hands of a murderous fiend by the name of Conrad Bael." The bald man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Happened, oh, nearly a decade ago now. Bastard was found, three days after someone hung him up to dry, with his own sword up his arse." Bedlam tucked the note into a pouch and looked Eskel in the eye. "Good work you did that day, mate. My little birds tell me you've not been back to Novigrad since. What brings you to my door?"

Eskel grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. "Looking for information. Dijkstra sent me to you."

"Ah, yes. Sigi." One corner of Bedlam's lips barely twitched in a sneer, then it was gone. "Well, I owe him one and this is an easy way to pay the debt. What do you want to know?"

"The witch hunters. Who's leading them now, what do you know that isn't common knowledge? " Eskel asked.

"Not much, really." Bedlam's words were cynical. "Tobold Muire's taken over as head of the Temple Guard. He's quiet, don't put himself out to appear grand. Yet he has the complete confidence of the Hierarch in a way that Menge and March never did." Bedlam settled against the edge of a large, sturdy table, tapping one finger against his skull. "Word is he doesn't go in for bloodier forms of torture and execution, but he gets inside his victims' heads till they are devoted to him in some sick way." The bald man rubbed his equally hairless chin, cocking his head in thought. "Here's the kicker. You could pass him on the street and never know you brushed shoulders. Muire is entirely forgettable unless you find yourself a guest in his dungeon."

"You think he'll change the flavor of the pogroms against magic users and non-humans?" Eskel took the seat Bedlam motioned toward as the Beggar King poured ale into tankards.

Bedlam scoffed. "The action against the mages last summer was all about seizing property and wealth, and stirring up the ignorant masses." Briefly slaking his thirst, the crime lord continued. "Hemmelfart needs the money to support Radovid's bid for the city. With Radovid's spiritual allegiance and gratitude, the Church has free reign to do as it will, not only in Novigrad, but in Redania and Kaedwen."

A draught of kaedweni stout washed some of the bitter taste off Eskel's tongue and he grimaced. "I suppose the whole Church is on board with this agenda." The scarred Wolf shuddered at the thought.

"Actually, no." Bedlam's head shook in denial. "There's conflict amongst the various clergy concerning Hemmelfart's politics, not to mention more opposition to the purges than any Eternal Fire official will publicly admit for fear of the flames." The Beggar King rose and paced before the hearth. "The temple guard and witch hunters side with Hemmelfart, but a ground swell of influential archbishops and cardinals oppose him. The Hierarch can be deposed if there's consensus during a conclave."

The scarred witcher mulled his words carefully. "Does this groundswell constitute a consensus? Will the pogroms stop if they get rid of Hemmelfart?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid. And if they were to make a move too early, every one of them would end up on a pyre for heresy." Bedlam stopped pacing, his eyes piercing the witcher. "The Church and the Temple Guard, aka the witch hunters, are like a two headed hydra. To kill it, you have to cut both heads off at the same time."

"Are the Church and the hunters consolidated in Redania or is their power structure well established throughout the North?" The empty tankard dangled from Eskel's fingers as he brooded into the fire.

"They're pushing for converts right now, making deep strides into No Man's land and Kaedwen. They have a small foothold in the far north - Povis and Kovir. The Hengfors League tolerates them." Bedlam stilled his pacing, palming his chin. "Word is, they took some serious losses a few weeks ago in a foolish attempt to take your witcher's strong hold. Is that true?"

"Yeah. We had some trouble." Mumbled Eskel.

The bald man scoffed. "Some trouble, he says. A combined force of a hundred trained witch hunters and Redania Special foot caused you 'some trouble'." Shaking his head, he continued. "What were they after, aside from doing for you?"

Eskel stood, considering his answer, scowling in thought. "They want to use witcher secrets to mutate the witch hunters."

Bedlam's low whistle resonated in the room and his face had paled. "Bad enough as they are now, gods help the rest of us if they succeed. Once they've gone through everyone who has the barest hint of magic and the non-humans, they'll come after the beggars in the street, the urchins and the prostitutes. Anyone, really, who can't fight back." Face clouded with disgust, the bald man strode to a rough bookshelf behind his desk. "I was given this, not long ago, by someone in the clergy that I trust." He pulled a tome from the shelves and thrust it at the scarred witcher.

Eskel took the book, reading the cover out loud. "The Trial of the Grasses and the Ancient Art of Witchering, by A. Gustasavus Reune. Published in 948 by the Oxenfurt Press." Scoffing, he shook his head. "If I had an oren for every time some scholar or mage claimed expertise on witchers, I wouldn't have to kill drowners for a living."

"Be that as it may, my source says they are very close to achieving their goal, lacking only the precise spells used to do the deed." Francis Bedlam resumed his seat before the fire and leaned his arms forward on his knees. "The war is dragging on and both sides are feeling the strain. Radovid wants a decisive victory over Novigrad. Enhanced witch hunters would hand him that victory easily, or at least so he thinks."

"They have all the mutagens?" Eskel's face gave nothing away.

"They're waiting on agents to bring back some of the more rare ingredients to finish the potions, but otherwise, they are ready." The sound of rain from outside had hushed and the air had grown cold despite the fire. Bedlam sat back and watched Eskel as the scarred man held his hands out to the warm blaze, his face a blank slate.

Finally, the Wolf's voice growled low in the room. "Will the battle be soon, do you think?"

"Before Yule, for sure." Bedlam said. "Probably by Saovine. Come the beginning of November we should know the victor."

Eskel scowled, thinking of the implications. The Church was far closer to its goal than any of them had thought if they planned on setting augmented witch hunters on Nilfgaard troops in the city. Lips tilting in a sneer, the witcher turned toward Bedlam and grunted. "You've given me a lot to think about. Anything more I might find useful? You happen to know anything about John Natalis or the whereabouts of Anais La Valette?"

The Beggar King shrugged his shoulders. "Only that Muire sent two witch hunters from Oxenfurt to retrieve Natalis' wife from her home outside Vizima and that they left about six days ago."

Eskel scratched his chin. Vizima wasn't so far, maybe he could intercept them on the way back. With a deep breath, he thanked the mobster and turned to leave.

Bedlam stood, thrusting a hand toward the witcher. "You've got what I know. Use that information to stop them, if you can. Cripple the hydra long enough for us to chop its heads off and stop the beast in its tracks."

They clasped hands in parting and Eskel strode into the gloaming, soft snow drifting on the wind. The scarred Wolf drifted along with it, deep in thought. He was disturbed knowing how close the witch hunters were to their goal. The plummeting temperature had nothing to do with the violent shudder that ran through his broad shoulders as he finally arrived back at the Chameleon. The Path ahead of him would be long and cold.

* * *

Triss gazed out the window, watching Kerrass walk into the snowy night. As the swirling flakes swallowed him up, she wished she could go back to Kaer Morhen with the rangey witcher, and leave this city behind. Frost accumulating on the window pane provided a chilly palette on which to doodle while assessing the last eighteen months of her life. Last summer's assassinations had sent the North into bloody, spiraling chaos that was still unresolved. Radovid and Emhyr snarled over Novigrad like a meaty bone, but neither dared make a move to take it. An uneasy stalemate settled over the city like the wisping snow as citizens hunkered down, hanging on the cusp of a raging storm. Whoever won Novigrad would win the war.

Sighing, Triss thought about Ciri, the Wild Hunt, and Geralt of Rivia. Strangely, her heart felt far less broken than it had at the end of summer, when the White Wolf had finally chosen Yennefer as his sole lover. There would always be friendship between the flame haired sorceress and the famed Gwynbleidd, but he didn't love her. She finally realized, as she stared into the falling snow, that she had never really loved him either. Infatuation and the desire to steal something from Yennifer had been her guiding motivations when she finally seduced him after his escape from the Wild hunt. What did that say about her? Nothing good, surely.

Fingers swirling doodles on the windowpane, she recalled a mountain night on the battlements of Kaer Morhen only six weeks ago. Calm, steady Eskel whose body thrummed so strongly with the force of magic, had been very drunk when she found him and anything but his usual, quiet self . He had been gentle when he embraced her, the controlled force of his passion sweeping her into an utterly primal response. The memory of soft kisses that tasted of cherry vodka and strong hands sparking heat through her body played with her nerve endings now.

" _What do you want, Triss?"_ The dark Wolf had growled, low and hungry, just before he captured her lips with his. The memory sent a frisson of sensation straight to her core, as if his hands were still caressing her, coaxing her arousal and she gasped. Shame suffused her, then, as she remembered how things had ended. In the heat of passion she had called Eskel by his brother's name.

' _I'm not going to make love to you with his shadow between us.'_ The scarred Wolf had grated, fury blazing in his eyes. Triss bowed her head in grief, pressing her hot face to the cold window, knowing how deeply she had wounded his pride.

With an effort, the sorceress dragged her mind away from Eskel. Geralt and Yennefer had left earlier in the day for Oxenfurt to find Margarita Laux-Antille. If only they could find Sile, Phillipa and Fringilla as well, they might have a chance of standing against the wild hunt and actually defeating them this time. Avallac'h had a plan that required significant magical prowess to pull off. When it was all over …. She sighed, sadly. When it was all over, she would go to Kovir and start a new life on her own terms and leave the witchers behind. In the meantime, she determined to scry out Philippa Eilhart's location as soon as possible.

Perhaps her earlier thoughts summoned Eskel out of the drifting snow because he stood in the street below her when she opened her eyes. Triss drew back from the window when the witcher gazed up and caught her looking at him. Shaking her head, she headed down to the taproom and told herself it was because she was tired of being cooped up in her room all day, not because she wanted to corner him at a quiet table and have dinner with him.

Eskel stepped into the well lit pub, enjoying the warmth and brushing snow from his dark hair. He looked up just as Triss descended the stairs, her hood pulled up to hide her from casual observation. Irresistibly drawn to her warmth and sweetness, the Wolf found himself at her side as she stepped into the taproom. Subtle notes of ginger and cloves with a dash of pomegranate swirled around him, enticing him to lean in closer.

"You changed your perfume." He murmured.

"Do you like it?" A mysterious smile graced soft lips while shadows played along the contours of her face. " I thought it was time for a change."

Eskel's eyes lit with an appreciative gleam. "It suites you."

Silence stretched between them for an awkward moment before Triss took a deep breath. "Have you had supper yet? I'm starved and the cook made roast lamb to die for. Join me?"

The scarred witcher took her hand and escorted her to a table tucked into a private corner. Flickering votives surrounded them in soft light as they talked quietly of his contract, of her search for Philippa and the other mages of the lodge. Triss spoke of accepting the position of lead magical advisor in Tancred Thyssen's court, how she was looking forward to the house promised her by the monarch, and the freedom to go out in public without fear again.

"It will be a relief for you to escape Novigrad." The scarred man was quiet for a moment, then continued. "If things go bad in Kovir, you can always come back to Kaer Morhen, you know that, right?" Eskel covered her small hand with his much larger one, looking into her face earnestly.

Triss smiled at him, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. "Are you sure about that, Eskel?" Her smile faded and she looked off toward the troubadours playing a sad folksong on the stage. "Would you welcome me?"

The dark Wolf leaned back in his seat, examining the wood grain in the table top before he answered her. She had been infatuated with Geralt for as long as he had known her and never looked to him till all hope in that quarter had been dashed. His brows drew together and he dissembled. "I just told you that you were welcome, didn't I?"

Her face suffused with heat as she bit her lip. Drawing circles on the tabletop with her finger, she looked down at her hands. "That's not what I meant. Oh, I really don't know what I meant."

Their easy camaraderie had been shattered and they were sunk back into uncomfortable silence. Eskel rose from the table first and, taking his leave of her, strode from the room. Triss collapsed into her chair and sank her head on her hand. Eskel would keep her at arm's length and she couldn't blame him. If their positions were reversed she wasn't sure she would ever forgive him, either.

' _Perhaps it's better this way,'_ she thought. _'Less confusing, less likely to end in heartache.'_ She had chased the White Wolf for so many years, through war, through the pogroms in Novigrad, it was shameful. What kind of pathetic woman threw herself at a man who really didn't want her? The sorceress wasn't about to make the same mistake concerning Eskel.

' _I'm done with being a pathetic wretch.'_ She decided. _'I'm done throwing myself at men who don't want me. I can stand on my own two feet and don't need anyone, not even a witcher, to prop me up.'_ Nodding to herself, she rose from her seat and went back to her room. It was time for Triss Merigold to redefine herself on her own terms.

* * *

Eskel donned his gambeson, strapped his swords to his back and swirled his cloak around himself, ready to accompany Kerrass to his rendezvous. The dark Wolf hadn't slept well the night before and had risen early to pack for the trail and seek out Geralt. The White Wolf's face had been grim as he listened to Eskel's tale, promising to keep an eye open for any signs of mutated witch hunters. Before they parted ways, his brother had urged the dark Wolf to seek out Vernon Roche for information, giving him directions to the commando's hideout.

He rode alongside Kerrass now, a mere five miles from the edges of Novigrad. Snow had given way to more soaking rain by the time the two witchers approached the farmhouse, leading three pack horses piled with supplies for the keep. Triss Merigold and Yennefer of Vengerberg were quietly discussing some urgent matter when they looked up to see the men dismount.

"Are you ready?" The redhead asked Kerrass, breaking away from the dark haired woman. The other sorceress was aloof and didn't speak to either witcher as she watched the farewells with a disdainful sniff. Eskel idly wondered if she and Geralt were fighting again. Knowing how sparks could fly between the two lovers, he wouldn't be surprised.

Shaking his head, the Wolf clasped hands with Kerrass as the sorceresses began weaving a spell. "Good luck on the path, kitten." Said the scarred man, a sneer tilting the uninjured side of his face.

"Just watch your own tail, mongrel." Kerrass grinned back. It was a timeworn joke between them, a ritual they performed at every parting.

Eskel dipped into his satchel, pulling out an oilskin wrapped package and handing it to the Cat. It was the book Bedlam had given him the night before, wrapped with correspondence and gifts for the children. "Give that to Micah if you would. You'll know her when she asks you for samples." Eskel's lips twitched his face into a real smile. "She'll probably be in the lab."

Kerrass tucked the package in his own saddlebag alongside other, similarly wrapped bundles. A serious note stole into the Cat's voice as he pinned his friend with a golden glare. "Be careful chasing monarchs, Es. Winter is a bad time to hunt." The scarred man just nodded as the wind whipped their cloaks about them in wet folds.

The witchers clasped hands one last time then drew apart as a portal expanded in the air before them with a roar like rushing wind, causing their medallions to skitter on their breasts. Eskel cast axii on his mount and two of the pack horses as Kerrass did the same to the other two animals. Scowling and taking a deep breath, the rangy witcher gripped the reins of four horses and stepped through the pulsing rift, disappearing from sight just before it slammed shut behind him. Without a word, Yennefer created another portal and sauntered through, but Triss stayed, quietly scrutinizing the lone Wolf with a steady gaze. Scorpion's reins dangled in his hands as he returned her regard before preparing to mount and ride away. So much remained unsaid between them.

"Eskel," Her voice was calm, sure, as her hand settled on his arm, drawing him around to study her hazel eyes. Sparks of awareness tingled under his skin at her touch and he wished he hadn't walked away from her the night before, even if staying with her had only been for one night.

"Take care of yourself, Triss." He murmured, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, wanting to lean down and kiss her, but unsure now of his reception.

"You too." Triss squared her shoulders, lifting her chin as she thrust a wooden wafer into his hand. "If you ever need my help, break that. I'll come as quickly as I'm able."

A puzzled frown creased his brow. "What is it?"

"It's a ward. When it breaks, it causes its mate to quiver, like a witcher medallion." She held up her wrist to show a matching charm looped through a leather thong bracelet. I can track you and come to your aid."

He grunted, then stuffed it his gambeson. "How many of these has Geralt used over the years, I wonder." Eskel's tone was slightly bitter as Triss turned and walked away from him, preparing to cast her own portal back to the Chameleon.

"Never." She said, looking at him over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow, rain coursing down between them. "I've only ever had the one token, and it's yours." An emotion Eskel wasn't prepared to name lit her eyes then and swirled through him. "Be safe, witcher." She summoned the portal and disappeared from his sight.

The scarred Wolf closed his eyes for a moment, letting her lingering scent die in the rain. As he had tucked her ward in his pocket, he tucked his thoughts of her away and mounted up, riding into the cold drizzle toward a guerilla outpost and any information Vernon Roche might give him about John Natalis.


	7. Shades and Shadows

_**Kaer Morhen, on the banks of the Gwenleach River**_

* * *

Snow lay deep in the valley as clouds huddled close to the mountains, diffusing the sunlight into subtle brightness. The air was silent except for the clumped flakes shushing to earth and fingers of ice teased the edges of the river into a still embrace. An exploding roar quavered in the air, sending a small herd of deer crashing into the forest as the blue and black swirl of a portal erupted, expelling Kerrass and the four horses onto the ford that crossed the river an hour's distance from the keep. Scarred battlements peeked from a clouded haze in the distance, the jagged teeth of old battles speaking eloquently of the castle's slow demise. Man and beast trudged up the road, finally climbing the track that skirted the lower curtain wall on their way to the front gate. The rangy witcher stopped for a moment as he came abreast of what remained of the stone edifice that had defined the lower bailey and gatehouse. The barbican had utterly collapsed and what was left of the defensive battlements of the lower curtain wall filled in the ditch and lay strewn down the mountainside.

Picking his way carefully over a recently marked path, the Cat gained the lower courtyard and mourned better memories of Kaer Morhen when he had first visited close to forty years ago. No one seemed to be about now. If he hadn't known better, Kerrass would have suspected the sorceresses of dumping him at an abandoned castle to survive the winter alone. He stilled himself to listen carefully and heard a faint whinny off to the left of the main fortress. It didn't take him long to find the makeshift stables where he settled his mount and the three packhorses alongside the beasts already in residence.

Hefting his saddlebags, he strode for the oaken doors that lead to the great hall. Woodsmoke hung in the air, hazing the atmosphere and softening the edges around crates and bookshelves that littered the floor. Kerrass heard voices coming from the dining area and he ambled toward them, pausing when a woman popped around a corner and stilled at the sight of him.

At first, he thought her a youth so petite was she. However, the training leathers, traditional garb for young witcher novitiates, didn't hide her feminine charms, or the thick auburn rope of her braided hair as it hung over one shoulder. She wasn't a beauty, even if one ignored the slashing scar that split the right side of her mouth from nostril to chin, but there was something about her that made one take a second look. Kerrass was just about to hail her when her face suddenly went bloodless as she stared at him, making the scar stand out in blaring relief. Even ten paces away, he could hear the desperate hammering of her heart, the ragged cadence of her breathing counterpointing the tremor in her nerveless fingers. He looked around in some alarm, wondering what terror had followed him inside.

* * *

Greta held up her paper so Micah could inspect her picture. Turning it one way and another, the little doctor dutifully studied the drawing of a draconid with all the gravity of a serious art collector. This would go on their peg board, she decided. The child had rendered the creature's wings such that it looked like a dyspeptic horse, but Micah praised the little maid, making much of her efforts. Witcher preschool required a lot of positive reinforcement. She told the children to write their letters and stood, heading to the kitchen to dish up their lunch and hang her newest art acquisition.

The little geneticist had just rounded the corner toward the kitchen door when she felt a cold blast of winter whistle through the great hall. _'The boys have returned'_ she thought, turning eagerly to see if Arek was with them. Maybe it was something honestly about the light playing through the woodsmoke and honestly cold air, or the sudden cracking of a log in the fireplace that brought back memories of that night, whatever it was, the woman felt herself drawn into a swirl of memory that was more real than the present.

The light dimmed before her eyes and she saw the witch hunter, the ghoul of her nightmares, coming for her again, saw his grinning, malevolent face bearing down on her. The picture fell from her nerveless fingers as her her heartbeat stuttered to a crashing sprint. She couldn't draw breath, couldn't run. Her feet were rooted to the flagstones. The clanging echoes of clashing swords and screams of dying men as they were torn apart by witcher bombs grew loud in her ears. Shaking violently as icy dread climbed her spine and twined around her gut, she took a step back.

"No ….no no no." The moan was barely audible as it whispered from her lips.

"UNCLE KERRASS!" Shrieked Gretta suddenly she launched herself around the Micah and into Kerrass' arms. He caught the little girl midflight, momentarily distracted from the woman in front of him.

"NO!" Micah screamed, surging forward and yanking Greta away from him as she made a sign in the air, launching the Cat backward with a forceful aard.

"What the hell!" Kerrass regained his feet, glaring.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Greta struggled to free herself from Micah's frantic grip. The woman, who's moaning sobs punctuated the still air, stumbled to the floor and desperately tried to scuttle away. Recognizing terror when he saw it, the witcher slowly sank down on his haunches with his hands raised in front of him and made soothing noises, as if to a spooked horse.

"It's ok. I'm not going to hurt you." Kerrass signed axii at her on an exhale, breathing a sigh of relief when she relaxed and let Greta go, crumpling into a shuddering heap on the flagstones. The child ran into his arms, tears filling her large blue eyes.

"See, doctor Micah? It's just my Uncle Kerrass. He's a witcher, like Lambert and Uncle Vesemir. He's not a bad man." The little girl's logic was so solid that the rangy man's lips twitched in quickly suppressed grin.

Micah lay in a tight ball, hiding her face against her knees as she choked back sobs. She hadn't expected a flashback, certainly not one that real, not at this time of day. She had been plagued by nightmares for the last several weeks, but they had never visited her while awake. She hadn't seen the witcher who was crouched in concern before her now, she had seen Belleville March, just as he had been the night of the battle with the witch hunters.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She muttered, rolling to her knees, gathering the pieces of her shattered psyche and trying to fit them back together. Kerrass stood, holding Greta on one hip as he offered the little woman a hand up. She accepted his help and came to her feet, refusing to meet his questioning gaze. Tears left raw tracks on her cheeks that she scrubbed with both fists.

"Are you alright?" The rangy Cat's face was all gentle concern as he regarded her. "What happened?"

"I ... I can't … I don't want to talk about it. Please," She closed her eyes, taking a trembling breath. Her eyes troubled, she cast a pleading look at him. "Don't say anything to the others. So stupid. I don't know what came over me." Micah hugged her arms around her middle, riding lessening waves of fear as reality settled into place again.

"You can count on my discretion, my lady." He sketched a bow to her, then introduced himself. "I'm Kerrass. Triss Merigold sent me with …"

"Ah with more supplies, yes. That's good… that's good." The woman interrupted him, cutting a speaking look to the little girl dandled in his arms. "You were friends with Jad, right? The children have told me about your visits to winter over in Novigrad. We expected someone to come, soon, but I expected one of the sorceresses, honestly." She was babbling. She knew she was babbling and ducked her head. Echos of the flashback were still ricocheting in her skull, tilting her equilibrium and nagging at her mind.

"I didn't catch your name, miss ..."

That garnered the ghost of a smile from the girl, bringing the roses back to her pale cheeks. "I'm sorry. Micah Patterson Von Winslow. My mate, Arek, and I are wintering here at Kaer Morhen." Roses aside, her eyes were dark and haunted, but she had finally pulled herself together.

"Uncle Kerrass?" Tolly had hobbled over, alarmed at the noise, and looked toward the adults a little warily.

Kerrass grinned wide at the sight of the youngster. "Tolly! What did you do? Jump off the battlements?" His smile dimmed as the boy's head hung in shame.

"I ran away and fell down a hole in a cave when a forktail tried to eat me." Raising an eyebrow at the boy's tale, Kerrass palmed his chin. "I can't wait to hear this story, lad."

"Tolly," The woman cleared her throat, trying to sound normal. "Take our visitor to the table and show him what you've been doing this morning." She glanced at Kerrass, shadows still swirling in her cinnamon eyes. "Are you hungry? What am I saying, of course you are. Men, especially witchers, are always hungry." She was babbling again. "We were just going to have our lunch and you're welcome to join us. Make yourself warm by the fire while I dish up some stew." She bustled off abruptly toward the kitchen then, abandoning him with Karadin's children.

Twenty minutes later, the Cat sat with a large bowl of thick, savory broth full of roasted venison and root vegetables. Warm, fresh baked bread and a cold tankard of ale rounded out his meal as Tolly regaled him with a blow by blow description of his escape from the forktail. Greta sat on his lap, playing with his Cat medallion, thumb in her mouth and eyes drooping sleepily. Micah brooded, listening to the story while turning a chunk of bread into a pile of crumbs, finally pushing her uneaten food away as she stood.

"Let me take her." Micah held her arms out for Greta. "It's time for her nap. You too, Tolly. Half an hour to rest then it's to the books with you." The boy groaned and hobbled toward the kitchen after the tiny woman.

Micah hadn't returned yet when the witcher heard the front door open on a rush of wind and the steady strides of three men as they approached the dining area. Gaining his feet, Kerrass stood just as Vesemir turned the corner, strolling toward the blazing hearth flanked by a large, dark haired witcher on one side and a mountain of a man sporting a Viper medallion on the other. The Cat recognized the King Killer by reputation alone.

"Kerrass!" Smiled Vesemir, coming forward to clasp hands with the lean Cat. "When did you arrive?"

Kerrass' grin split his face on seeing the old man hale and hearty. "Less than an hour ago. I brought more supplies from Novigrad." His voice turned somber. "And Letitia Karadin's remains."

Vesemir nodded slowly. "We'll have to plan a service. I think Lambert and Keira would like to be here for that, so we'll wait for them." The old witcher turned toward his companions, making introductions. "Kerrass, I'd like you to meet Letho of Gulet and Arek of Maleore, both spending the winter here. Boys, this is Kerrass of Maecht. He's an old friend and a welcome guest!" Kerrass clasped hands with Arek and Letho, nodding to both men.

"Manticore?" Remarked the Cat to Arek. "Don't believe I've ever seen anyone of your school before."

Arek's grin was sad. "I'm the last. May the earth lie lightly upon the rest."

The four witchers discussed the witch hunters and the Wild Hunt for a few minutes before Micah reappeared, looking much recovered from her earlier break down. The wholehearted smile she flashed at the tall Manticore transformed her face. Despite the scar she was, in that moment, beautiful. Kerrass looked away as the pair came together in greeting, unaccountably feeling as if he was intruding on their privacy though they did little more than entwine their hands.

Herding the men back to the table, Micah served stew, bread and ale to all, grinning when Kerrass gladly took seconds.

"Haven't met a witcher yet who wouldn't eat when food was offered." She said on a laugh, her eyes twinkling mischeviously.

The Cat grinned in reply. "I don't get that much good cooking on the road, my lady. Have to take advantage of it when it's available." Micah blushed and the others agreed with Kerrass as they devoured their food. As he finished his second bowl of stew, the rangy man pulled a package out of his saddlebag, presenting it to the woman. "Eskel said you would know what to make of this." A question in her eyes, Micah leaned forward to accept the bundle. She set aside the small gifts meant for the children and looked the book over, her face lighting up as she read the aged leather cover.

"Well, this is one we didn't have in the collection yet. Here's hoping it's not all tripe." Standing, Micah leaned against Arek's shoulder as the big witcher's arm came around her waist. "The kids are resting right now, you guys can take charge of them when they get up." Inspecting the toys that had been wrapped with the book, she tilted her head in thought. "These are a nice start to make a merry yule for the little ones. Were you planning on going back to Novigrad, Kerrass, or will you be staying the winter with us?"

The Cat shook his head. "Nothing to go back to, really. I'll be staying." The full force of her brilliant smile beamed at him, making his heart skip a beat.

"The children will be thrilled to hear that." A pensive furrow drew between her delicate brows, dimming her light. "They're resilient, you know. But I'm glad you're here for them all the same." Tucking the book under her arm and gathering the toys, the little woman left the men to their ale and headed toward the laboratory.

Arek watched Micah as she walked away, then cut a glance toward the rangy witcher. "Did she eat anything before we came in?"

"Not while I've been here, why?" Kerrass shrugged. The Manticore just shook his head as he left the table to follow his lover.

Letho snorted as Arek strode away and pinned the Cat with an appraising gleam in his eye, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood. "Care for a game of dice? Loser does the dishes." Said the huge witcher

A sneer lit Kerrass' face as he accepted the challenge.

* * *

 _ **No Man's Land, west of Blackbough**_

* * *

Pouring rain wept from the sky in ice cold tears, washing the land and saturating every field and hidden copse until the ground sank under myriad muddy puddles. Winter in Velen was a frigid and miserable affair at the best of times, when one could claim a warm fire and well stocked larder. This year, the war ravaged land had yielded a stingy harvest to desperate crofters since armies had rumbled through, abandoning the people to a cold and lingering starvation. Every village boasted lean faced adults with sunken bellies and weakened children succumbing to sniffles that progressed to dire fevers overnight. Some said the death toll from the third Nilfgaardian war numbered in the tens of thousands, but they didn't count untold victims who would starve before spring sent forth green shoots once again. Hope was a mythical commodity no one in the hinterlands of Temeria could afford.

Graden of Rinbe couldn't tell if he prefered the rain that was pouring from sky this evening or the clumping snow that had come with freezing temperatures the previous night. At least the snow didn't plaster his dark hair against his skull or run in rivulets between his eyes. He and Tamara Strenger slogged down the road, mud dragging at their boots, huddled in ragged cloaks that stank of old wool and rotten potatoes. The witch hunters had left Oxenfurt on the sixth of October under orders to pose as itinerant priests. They were to spread the warmth of the Eternal Fire across war torn Velen as they made their roundabout way to retrieve Lady Netalis from the outskirts of Vizima. They had sufficient supplies and food to see them comfortably there and back but, a company of deserters attacked them outside of Heatherton two days ago. The companions had beat back the scum, but not before their cart was smashed and one of the donkeys lay dying in the road, leaving them to continue their mission on foot. Fortunate to still possess their lives they abandoned most of their goods, piling the remaining beast with the barest of necessities.

Graden held the animal's bridle, urging it forward as the girl tried to help from the other side, swatting it's hind quarters lightly with a switch. Neither of them spoke more than three words throughout the day, their priestly robes sodden and caked with filth under ragged cloaks that did little to ward off the chill. The dark haired man stumbled to a halt as a violent bout of coughing stole his breath, leaving bloody spittle on his lips.

"Damn." He gasped. "This chill weather is going to be the death of me." Swiping at the crimson froth with the edge of his cloak, Graden stood up straight, meeting the frightened eyes of his companion over the back of the donkey. Years of tending the Eternal Flame in Tretagor left his lungs scarred and sensitive to the cold air. Joining the witch hunters had been an act of self preservation, but diligence and commitment had secured a command of his own before the age of thirty and one.

Once upon a time, Graden had been consumed with ideas of changing the world, securing the future for humanity against magic and beasts alike, but as time wore on, disillusionment dug deeper within his spirit. The Church filled its coffers at the expense of the mages and non-humans targeted in murderous pogroms, chivying away the wealth for the high holy men while the faithful flocks often went without bread or even a roof over their head. What kind of hope delivered empty platitudes but no real help? What kind of man was he to hide behind a wall of flame as people suffered? If the holiest texts embodied truth, then it was for everyone to discover the life-giving warmth and light in them, be they elf, dwarf, human or even doppler. There was something obscene about claiming the love of the Eternal Fire while burning a living being at the stake, then laughing as they screamed in agony before they succumbed. Graden kept these thoughts to himself lest anyone name him a heretic. The church didn't suffer heresy lightly and he had no desire to end up impaled on a spike. Ever since his conversation with Geralt of Rivia in the Crookback Bog last summer, he found it harder and harder to justify remaining silent.

The witch hunter ran a hand through his sopping hair, trying to push it back into it's que a the base of his neck, but like the rest of him, it was soaked through. The leather thong broke in his fingers and he scowled and furrowed his brow at Tamara. She was young and lovely with her dark hair and melted chocolate eyes. It was a pity she clung to bitterness over her father. It gave her a hard, ugly edge that marred any sweetness she might have. The man shook his head as he hacked blood again, chastising himself for his foolishness. She was a decade younger than he, far too young for him to view as anything than another witch hunter under his command.

Tamara watched her commander struggling to draw breath, frighted of the blood flecking his lips and face. He had started wheezing after the fight with the deserters. His difficulty became more pronounced as the temperature plummeted. She looked around the bleak landscape, hope surging as she realized where they were.

"Crow's Perch isn't far." She announced. "My father will give us room and food for the night, commander. You can rest and be restored by the Fire." Her voice wasn't as sure as she wanted it to be, a hated quaver creeping in despite her best efforts to sound confident.

"I thought you had disowned your father, hunter Strenger." He said, attempting to catch his breath.

She shrugged noncommittally. "We can't afford to be choosy. Right now, even his company would be preferable to freezing to death."

Graden only nodded, straightening up and grasping the donkey's bridle once more. They trudged for another hour before they saw the log palisades that made up the defensive fortress of Crow's Perch. Peering through the gloom and rain, something was odd as they approached the settlement. Though danger from bandits was ever present, there were no guards at the gates. Nor was there any smoke rising from home fires. Dogs didn't bark a greeting and the laughter of children running through the village was missing, though it was only noon by their best estimation. Sinister silence greeted them, broken only by the drumming rain.

Creaking timbers accompanied the echos of their hollow footsteps as they crept onto the slick bridge. Halfway across, the donkey started balking, trying to yank it's head out of Graden's grasp. Grunting at the beast he hauled it forward, reaching the entrance to the village at last. The place even smelled deserted. Darkened windows and doorways gaped at them as they made their wary way up the cart track.

"Where is everyone?" Tamara's words wavered in a fearful whisper as she shivered violently, a reaction equal parts chill and terror.

Graden's brow creased as he looked around "Let's keep going. There's a stable up by the manor, isn't there?" He said, not waiting for her answer.

Slowly, the pair walked, passing house after empty house. The sun had struggled to shed light through leaden clouds that gathered ever closer when they gained the livery yard. The wind picked up, sounding a mournful cry through barren trees, counterpointed by the rhythmic creaking of something heavy swinging from the old oak directly in front of them. They rounded the tree and Tamara swallowed a horrified moan. Swinging from a branch was the decayed body of the Baron of Crow's Perch, her father. He was strung high enough that necrophages had only reached his lower legs and feet. Crows had done the work of reducing his face to a grinning death's head, but the steel gorget over the ragged, red tunic and the large sheath that used to house a hunting knife gave gave witness of the corpse's identity.

Tamara gave a choking sob "Daddy! Oh what have you done! No!" She stumbled forward and fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands as wrenching sobs tore from her throat.

Graden strode around the donkey, kneeling in the mud beside the girl. "There's nothing we can do for him right now, Tamara." He said gently. "Come. Let's get out of the rain and start a fire. We can be warm and dry for a while at least." He rose, pulling her to stand before him as he rested his hands awkwardly on her shoulders. "We'll see about cremating his remains after we've rested. At least we can do that much."

Nodding jerkily, she let him lead the way to the stables where the donkey was bedded down with oats and a warm layer of hay. The witch hunters made their way to the manor house, feeling uneasy as they passed through the remains of the smashed door.

"Dad …." The girl stopped short and swallowed the word. "The baron's study is this way." Stumbling on detritus littering the floor, Tamara led the way. They got a fire lit in the grate, throwing rosey shadows about the room as the warmth seeped into them. The light didn't seem to reach the corners, however, and the companions huddled near the hearth trying to soak in comfort from the blaze. Exhaustion finally claimed the witch hunters despite the eerie surroundings and they both drifted into a fitful slumber filled with disjointed and disturbing dreams.

Outside, the wind picked up and the rain came down harder as the baron's rotting corpse swayed with each cold gust of wind, the tree limb that supported the grim remains creaking ominously.


	8. A Key For A Kingdom

**Thank you to the kind folks at The Witcher's Lair for putting up with my fits and starts, bugging them to give me writing fodder as i struggled with writer's block the last few weeks. Luthor was the direct result of a forum topic on the archer from The Witcher 2 opening cinematic and Elsie was born last night as I begged members to indulge me in a bit of free form writing. You guys are AWESOME!**

* * *

Luthor was bored. He'd been standing watch on top of this ploughin' rock since the rising of the moon the night before. He should have known better than to play gwent with that toady, Quig. The big man from Brenna was a wicked card sharp, as anyone who lived in this hole in the ground knew. Now, the archer was stuck pulling back to back watches in freezing rain. Scratching the back of his head, he cursed under his breath, watching as the vapor of his words curled away into frigid silence. Snow had slicked the rocks around the Temerian Resistance's hideout all through the night, then rain washed away the snow in a steady downpour all day. Now, as the sun was casting furtive rays under the ceiling of clouds, gilding the soaked world in watercolors of orange and gold, the temperature was plummeting once again. Getting off the lookout point would be tricky. A fall from here would result in a broken arm or leg if he was lucky, a broken neck if he wasn't. Lucas would have laughed his arse off, Luthor thought. He always missed his twin brother, but never more than when he was pulling guard duty and had little else to think about. Shaking his head, the archer indulged in his favorite fantasy ... pegging the King Killer full of arrows while the ploughin' witcher was tied to an endrega nest. That bastard had murdered Lucas. His brother had been part of a special Temerian envoy, assigned to the royal frigate that fateful day, when Letho of Gulet butchered King Demavend and every living soul aboard the ship. At least Lucas had died honorably, quickly and didn't have to freeze his arse off at the top of this ploughin' rock.

Sudden commotion exploded from inside the hideout as voices were raised in anger. Luthor recognized Ves, the commander's second in command, and Elsie, one of the widows that had followed her soldier husband to the Dol Blathana-Mount Carbon line last year. Her mate had perished along with so many other brave Temarians on that fatal day against Nilfgaard, but the woman had survived and made the trek to this hole in the woods with the rest of the stragglers. Later, Luthor blamed the ruckus for distracting him from his job. That's why he didn't see the newcomer riding up the path toward the hideout until he was nearly at his position.  
"Halt!" Shouted the archer, training an arrow down on the rider. None of the other guards jogged from the cover of the cave at his order. Brows crashing together, Luthor shouted louder. "One more step and I'll ploughin' skewer your eye with me arrow."

The rider halted, looking up at the man standing atop the jutting spire of granite, his golden eyes shining in the gloaming. Eskel swung out of the saddle and growled at the sentry. "Come down from there before you fall and I have to scrape your sorry ass together."

Luthor glared down at the witcher. "Damn, another fucking witcher. Lucky I didn't loose the arrow before asking questions! Just turn around and walk away nicelike and I won't stick this arrow in yer back." The bow creaked slightly as the guard pulled the string taut against his cheek by another half inch. The scarred man just gazed quietly at the archer and sighed.

He raised a hand, as if bidding farewell, drawing a line in the air first with his index finger then immediately followed by his pinky. His voice was soft, smooth, in contrast to his harsh face. "I'm looking for Vernon Roche. Geralt of Rivia is a mutual friend. You can let me pass." Eskel wasn't above dropping Wolf's name if it got results, though it bothered him to depend on that tactic.  
"He's in the cavern. Go straight then turn right at the second branch." Luthor blinked in owlish compliance as the axii muddled his brain. The scarred Wolf just nodded thanks and strode into the compound, leaving the archer shaking his head to clear cobwebs from between his ears.

Raucous shouting echoed from stone walls as the witcher strolled quietly into the widest "room" of the narrow chasm housing the guerilla dregs of Temaria's finest. Two women faced off, ringed in by a wall of soldiers, glaring at each other and each with a sword in her hand. Vernon Roche was shouting something at them, but his words were lost in the loud cries of the milieu. Eskel pushed his way through the burgeoning crowd to plant himself beside Roche. Startled, the Blue Stripe commander scowled at the newcomer and turned his back on the women.  
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The roar rattled dirt and small stones from ceiling of the overhanging draw, startling the jeering throng to silence. "Get back to your posts, you worthless lot of shits. If I see any of you shirking your duties again, I'll string your guts on a lute and let Dandelion play a ballad over your dead bodies."

The witcher chuckled. "Doubt the bard would like that much."  
Roche grunted and turned his attention back to the women. "Ves, what's going on here?"

The blond woman cut a look at the newcomer, then spat on the floor. "Elsie, here, decided she could dip in my pack and help herself to my things."  
"I told you, it wasn't like that." Elsie countered. "Dodd's foot is festering and I was looking for that salve you brought back from your travels last month. Couldn't find you, but his foot is like to come off if it's not treated right quick."  
"And you couldn't just ask?" Spat Ves. "You had to root through my stuff?"

"Enough!" Barked Roche, glaring at both women. "Elsie, go take care of Dodd, then set to cleaning the company's armor." The woman looked at him in disgust. "ALL of it. And when you're done, oil up the swords. Ves, take Luthor's place on point and send him to me."  
"Damn Roche, it's colder than a hag's tits out there, and I just pulled duty the day before yesterday!" The blond woman objected.  
"Fuck that, Ves. Do as your told." Roche's eyes were blazing fire at the girl as he ripped off his chaperon to rake fingers through his short cropped, brown hair. "You know better than to let such a stupid argument result in swords drawn. I've taught you better. A full night on watch should cool you down enough to discuss it in the morning."

Dashing a murderous glare at her commander, Ves stormed toward the entrance of the compound, nabbing a woolen cloak, a crossbow and a full quarrel of bolts on her way. Eskel watched as she turned a corner, shaking his head. No one else could disrespect Vernon Roche like that and live to tell the tale. He could still hear her muttering under her breath and thought that Roche shouldn't bet on any kind of resolution come dawn. The Wolf turned back to the commando, waiting as the Blue Stripe put his hat back on.

"What was that all about?" Asked the Wolf.  
"What the hell, Eskel? You just waltz right on in like you own the place. Damn fucking guards." Roche's eyes blazed, then turned crafty as he planned their discipline. Grass and guerilla drills would be the order of the day tomorrow. He raised an eyebrow at the scarred Wolf then lowered his head on a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. The Temarian's voice grew quiet. "They're antsy, wanting to fight but having to dig in till it's time. They know something big's coming down the pike, but not what, so they're at each other's throats."

The witcher grunted. "You know, though, don't you?"

Sliding his eyes away, the Blue Stripe fingered the hilt of his sword. "Aye, but that trouble's nothing to do with you. Why ARE you here. Thought you would be cozy in Kaer Morhen giving Micah her samples."

A stray breeze stirred up a shower of sparks from the nearby camp fire as Eskel considered what to say. "We had other troubles after the Wild Hunt. I'm on the Path gathering information." He was tempted to confide in the dark man, knowing the commander was tough as tempered steel and a deadly swordsman, someone he definitely wanted at his back. Roche was also crafty and whipcrack smart, able to deduce patterns in the movement of enemy troops that unerringly gave him an advantage in battle. He could have invaluable insights concerning the movements of the witch hunters. Pressing his lips together, deciding to stay quiet on that front, the scarred witcher stuck to his current contract for the time being. "I need information. You and Geralt invaded Dethmold's stronghold last year, right?"

"What a fucking mess that was." Roche's sidelong glance skimmed the scarred man's face, knowing an evasion when he saw it. "Saved Anais LaValette from that perverted prick. Left her with John Netalis. I know you didn't come knocking at my door just to hear that tale again."

"I need to find the little girl." Said Eskel. "Do you know what became of Netalis or her?" Crouching at the sputtering fire, the men held chilled hands toward the struggling blaze as they talked.

"Who wants to know, witcher?" A snarl lit Roche's face. "I'll not see her snapped up to be used."

"I'm not at liberty to say." Cool indifference colored the scarred man's voice as he remained still. People sometimes said amazing things if they thought you didn't care overly about the subject you were discussing, but the assessing gaze of the commando seemed to pierce through Eskel's neutral expression.

"Neither am I at liberty to just hand out information on Temaria's queen." Bitterness burned in Roche's eyes. "How much are they paying for her?"

Sneering, the witcher chuffed. "Client/Witcher confidentiality. I can only say it could be more."

"What if I offered you more to bring her back to me?" The tips of Vernon Roche's fingers held him fascinated as he idly brushed them with his thumb. "Oh, don't think I won't be good for it. In fact, I'll either be in a position to reward you handsomely by the time you find the chit, or I'll be dead. Either way, you walk away solvent."

"Who ever has Anaise controls Temaria, is that it?" Eskel's words tasted sour in his mouth. Dijkstra had as much as said the same thing.

"Just so." Another cold breeze blew between the men. "The difference being that I have Temaria's best interests at heart and will guard Anais with my life. I doubt your client could say the same."

"I need to know where she is if I'm going to bring her to anyone." The witcher shrugged. "That includes you, Vernon. Not saying I'll take your offer, nor leave it for that matter."

Roche's arms were folded over his chest, an implacable barrier to the knowledge Eskel wanted, no NEEDED if he were to find his quary.

"Ok. You have a deal. If I find her, and if it's possible, I'll bring her to you. I'll name my price before you get her, though. Understood?"

The other man nodded once in agreement, his eyes hooded as he huddled close to the fire, the commander beckoned Eskel to draw near. "I honestly don't know where John took her." He said. "Just before we were completely routed by Nilfgaard, I saw his charger rear up under him. I thought to push through with support and beat back the bastards that surrounded him, but there were just too many of them. I never saw the fatal blow, but I'm don't see how he could've survived."

Roche scrubbed at his face as as if to wipe away the memories. "That was the last I saw of the Interex. He was either killed or taken prisoner by the Black Ones, but I didn't find his body when I went back to look. Too many lilies were cut down that day. Our whole damn army." Bleak eyes met the witcher's gaze. Shaking off his reverie, Roche glared at the sliver of night splitting the roof of the cave as silent snowflakes swirled into his upturned face. "John told me, just before we met Nilfgaard, that he had hidden the child away. Letting her come into Emhyr's hands should we fall … it was unspeakable. Something to be avoided at all costs. He didn't trust Radovid, either. Said it would be better for the girl to die than be used as a pawn to control the north."  
"He didn't kill her, did he?" Eskel watched the icy fairy dust make tiny stars on his dark leather gloves.

"No. No, he would never do that. But he refused to tell me where he hid her. I just know it wasn't at his home. Netalis said it was better this way, that I could never tell what I didn't know if I were captured. Just a few hours before he fell, as we crouched in a ploughin' hole in the ground, he gave me this." Pulling a pouch out of his heavy gambeson, Roche fished out a key. "Told me that when the time was right, I would know what to do with it, that it would lead to the restoration of Temaria." The commando held it out to the witcher.

Eskel inspected the piece of tempered meteorite steel, rendering it more rust resistant than any iron counterpart. At first glance, there was nothing terribly special about the inch long implement. The open bow gave no evidence to it's origin, nor did the collar, throating or pin betray what lock it opened. The only distinguishing characteristic, other than unusual metallurgy, were the seven key wards notched into three narrow bits. The lock this belonged to was meant to be very difficult for a thief to pick. Casting an inquisitive glance at his companion, the witcher slipped the key into his belt pouch. "Any idea what it opens?"  
"No clue. But if I were you, I'd start at the Netalis estate. John was a stickler for detailed documentation. I'm sure he had a cache of paperwork hidden away somewhere, including notes on the princess."

They talked for a while about the best rout to Netalis' estate and the quickest way across the Pontar. Pulling out a map, Roche pointed to Oxenfurt then Todaras. "Land path is your best bet right now. The barges haven't run for nearly seven months and the river is full of all kinds of filth, even if you could find a sailboat to slip upstream. It's treacherous to sail this time of year anyway." The commando drew a line with his finger. "Stick to the forest here and you should be able to slip through without a pass, and avoid the Nilfgaardian encampments to the south. It shouldn't take you more than a few days of hard riding to reach Vizima."

Roche invited Eskel to stay at the hideout till dawn, pointing out that travel in the dark and snow was far from ideal. The witcher gladly accepted the offer as a cask of ale was breached to fill their tankards. Toasting their deal with Mahakam's finest, the Wolf and the commando fell into an easy conversation that had nothing to do with schemes or wars or kingdoms before both men sought their bedrolls in the frigid caverns and hunkered down into warmer dreams.


	9. The Price of Treason

The Oxenfurt Academy clock tower chimed eleven bells into the frosty night as light flakes of snow drifted to collect on shingled roofs and in the hollows of well ordered streets. Leaded glass windows looked sleepily on the world, their darkened panes unilluminated except for the few where a night candle burned to ward away bad dreams. Had someone peeked out at the right time, they would have witnessed the passing of a large man swaddled in a dark woolen cloak, his broad shoulders emphasized by a fluttering half cape and his features swallowed by the draping hood that shadowed his face. Except for the pronounced limp, he moved with a lithe grace unexpected for someone his size. An eagle headed walking staff thumped the pavement with each careful step, bolstering his halting gait.

His arrival in the city had been unremarked, thanks to a pair of magical portals the man had commissioned from a desperate mage in exchange for concealment from the witch hunters. It allowed the big man to move between Novigrad and Oxenfurt without raising suspicions.

Despite the need for secrecy, business had dictated a tight itinerary for the cloaked figure, including a meeting with certain mid and high level officers of the Redanian army, discussions with a particular royal smith and, most interesting, a clandestine discussion with a high level witch hunter conducted on a particular park bench near the Academy. Now, snow resting on his cloaked figure, the giant stood on the richer side of town regarding the well tended facade of an Oxenfurt townhouse, his final destination. Under the hood of his cloak, the man leered as he raised the walking stick and pounded on the door. He didn't care if the owner was balls deep in his new bride or not, it was time to shake the smarmy bastard out of his comfortable bed and set in motion the engine of deliverance he had carefully crafted.

* * *

His Lordship, Eduird Sonderbrae, Marquess of Maymarch and warden of the highlands, was deeply engrossed in getting an heir on his young wife when a scratching came at the locked bedchamber door. Ignoring the timid summons, the nobleman hoisted one of Joranna's shapely legs over his shoulder and thrust harder and deeper, urged on by her gasping cries, trying to bring them both to a satisfying finish before the interruption became critical. He concentrated on the feel of her around him as sweat glistened on his brow, grunting with his efforts and blocking out the ever more insistent disturbance. Suddenly, a very loud, very definitive knock broke Eduird's focus. Joranna, at least, pulsed her release to the music of her wild moans, but the insistent banging at the door utterly ruined the mood for poor Lord Maymarch. He collapsed into Jora's arms in frustrated resignation, grimacing into the laughing gray eyes of his wife. The woman had a right sick sense of humor, still skewered as she was beneath him and stretching like a satisfied cat. Growling, he withdrew from her honeyed recesses, kissed her soundly and rose from the bed.

"Go take care of whatever it is, Eddy, then come wake me up." She purred in contentment as she propped her pretty face on a well manicured hand. Pouting her lips in a provocative mou, she watched his backside as he dressed. "I'll make sure you finish this time."

He shook his head on a lascivious grin, then turned somber. "This damn well better be important." Shoving a hand through his short cropped, dark hair, he pulled a pair of trousers over his rapidly deflating manhood. Lord Sonderbrae was still young enough to make vigorous love to his Joranna, but silver streaked his thick, black mane, marking the nobleman's approach to his fortieth winter. Donning a crimson silk dressing gown, he tied the sash firmly in grim disatisfaction and stepping into the hallway of the Oxenfurt townhouse, the Marquise swiftly closed his bedchamber door and confronted Toberius. The head butler quaked as he held out a calling card in one trembling hand. Maymarch paid his house servants very well to NOT involve him unless there was no other recourse. If this was a specious summons they could have seen to without disturbing him, heads would roll.

"M'lord, I beg your forgiveness! The ...there's a man to see you." Genuflecting, Toberius stammered his apology. "The individual refused to leave and threatened to storm up the stairs if we didn't fetch you immediately." Casting an irritated glare as the card, Eduird stalked to his study, roughly shoving the door open to find a huge man pursuing his book shelves.

The former Count Reuven, Sigismund Dijkstra, looked up from his study of the Marquess's personal library and tapped his walking stick lightly against the fine grained walnut planks of the floor to ceiling case.

""Of Wealth and Kingdoms" by Alexis Aep Tanqeuville. "Blood Succession And The Establishment of Thrones" by Veraldi De Long." Intoned the large spy in a quiet murmur. "And your very own "The Kaedweni Protocol", albeit written under a pseudonym." Rueven, rubbing a hand across a jaw that no one would describe as handsome, assessed the nobleman. "You have an interesting collection here, Eduird. One could almost think you weren't a Redanian Patriot."

"What do you want, Dijkstra?" Maymarch surged forward and yanked the leather bound volume out of the big spy's hands. Glaring at the former head of Redanian Intelligence, he stalked around a large desk tossing the book aside before planting both fists on it's dark surface. The desk was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, dark and imposing, built of Ofiri ebony and inlaid with swirled knots of Zerrikanian zebra wood that flowed in the intricate patterns of the Skellige Isles. A masterwork of perfection, it was Eduird's most prized possession.

"Ah, Eddy, is that any way to greet an old friend? Once upon a time we would share a glass of good Cidarian brandy and a chat by a rosy fire." Piggish eyes grew wide in mock injury as the former Redanian spymaster drew his finger along the fine woodwork.

"That was before Loch Muine." Eduird sank into the well padded chair behind the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. "I repeat, what do you want?"

The spy's smile was discomforting, carrying hints of malicious self interest and conspiratorial guile. He pulled an armless chair forward, turning it's back to face his companion as he straddled it and crossed thick arms over the top rail. Growing serious, Dijkstra pinned his former peer with a gimlet stare. "How have things been since last may? Have Radovid's policies brought sorrow to your house?"  
"You didn't come here at midnight to inquire as to my health. Save us both your wasted breath. What do you want?" Eduird matched Dijkstra's stare with one of his own.  
The big man nodded, a grimace making his face even uglier. "Where stands the council of Redanian lords, Maymarch? How much support does Radovid still have after his bloody Belletyne feast last spring?" Nodding at the scowl on the Marquess's face, Dijkstra waited for his reply.

Belletyne. Eduird's shoulders slumped as he stared at the swirls of zebrawood, wishing they granted a reprieve from the memories. There had been a royal feast. Every member of Redania's noble houses had been required to attend. Radovid had rounded up everyone that could claim a direct blood connection to the throne, impaling half of them on sharpened pikes in the main baily of the royal castle, and imprisoning the other half in the bowels of its dungeons, then redistributing their titles to those in his inner circle of advisors. All the Peers who had not been rounded up had been forced to watch the proceedings so they would understand the clear message. The king would suffer no challenge to his rule, real or imagined, and he would be proactive in eliminating every threat. Even his own kith and kin were not immune.

"What does it matter? Half the old guard is gone and what's left is cowed. Do you think they'll rise up against Radovid now, infiltrated as we are with the king's sycophants?" Scowled Eduird, brushing his grim thoughts aside.

Dijkstra's eyes glittered darkly as his sneer intensified. "What if I told you we could free the realms of Radovid - his policies AND his person - thus ending the war before Yule?" The big man leaned forward, causing the chair to creak under his weight and gestured with the walking stick. "What if I could promise a stabilized North that would profit heavily from new commercial ties to the South?"

Eduird rose, pacing the length of the tall bank of windows behind the desk "And the price for these promises? I would expect you of planning regicide to revenge yourself on him, but the rest? Do you think to insert yourself onto the throne?" The nobleman rubbed his right thumb along the meat of his left palm, his brow drawing down in thought.

"I don't want the throne, but I am well trained be the chancellor of an independent state once Radovid is gone." Dijkstra's face tightened in a sour scowl, his words flowing in the practiced outrage of an accomplished politician as he gesticulated with his cane. "Do you have such a disgust of me that you will let that little prick rule a day longer than necessary while he decides who to impale next? I can't ... I WON'T abide letting him destroy everything Vizimer and I worked for. Everything YOU worked for, Eduird."

Eduird stopped pacing and caressed the tooled leather backrest of his favorite chair, palming his chin in thought. Green eyes narrowed on the big spy. "This is treason. If your plan falls through, I'm a dead man."

Dijkstra's eyes were grim as he gained his feet, the chair clattering to the floor as he seethed in barely controlled fury. "We're dead men anyway, if King Radovid lives! The whole damn North is dead!" Reigning in his passion, the spy continued in a breathy growl. "We can either accept the certainty of our demise as we tremble in our closets, or we can damn well defy fate and take the opportunity when it's given to us."

"What is it you want from me, Sigismund?" Grated Maymarch, uncertainty painting his low voice. "What can I possibly do that would change the tide?"

"You have influence with the old guard. You can sway the remaining lords and, through them, the generals. Get the troops to withdraw and let Radovid die when the fighting in Novigrad starts." The words fell into stunned silence as Eduird paled, realizing the implications.

"That's considerably more than garden variety sedition, man." The nobleman sat heavily in his chair and swallowed the cold ball of fear gathering in his throat. Then he chuckled ironically as a thought hit him. "If your plan works, we'll all be annexed to Nilfgaard before Midsummer."

"Better annexed than hauled on a pike and burned on a pyre." Dijkstra's voice was hideous as he spoke the truth, his mouth tipping in a daring grin. "We'll be free to govern ourselves if you'll but help. Just have a little faith in me, Eduird. So long as we have someone we can front as the local ruler, Redania will not be lost."

"You have someone in mind, do you?" Fingers drummed on the desktop.

"I do. But I won't say more about that right now." Dijkstra leaned over the ebony surface of the desk. "Tell me I can count on you, my friend. Tell me I can count on the others. I'll be back in one week for your answer." The spy turned and hauled his bulk toward the study door, then turned back when his hand resting on the doorknob. "Tell your servants I was here to collect a debt you owe me. You do, you know. Owe me. I'm the reason you succeeded to your title. It would have stayed with James had I not taken him to Loc Muinne with me." On the tail of his parting words, the spy left, swallowed by darkness and the clicking sounds of his cane as it beat a staccato retreat on marbled tiles at the entry.

Maymarch didn't relax until he heard the front door click shut behind his unwelcome guest. Eduird dug in a drawer for a flask of strong vodka. Not bothering to find a glass, he took his first drink and sank his head into one hand, knowing Dijkstra was right. Radovid had to be stopped. What would James have done? Toasting to his late half-brother's memory, Lord Sonderbrae pulled out a blotter and fresh vellum from his desk, sharpened a quill and dipped the tip in fresh ink. Several hours later, he awoke his most trusted footmen and sent them to deliver his missives to six noble houses. He would be ready when the spy returned.

* * *

Graden awoke. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, only close his eyes and rest momentarily. His back was propped against the end of a rough wooden pillar, the drying leather of their saddlebags pungent in the cold air. The man scrubbed his face with one hand and looked to his companion. Tamara lay, head pillowed on her satchel, seemingly untroubled by dreams.

Outside the ring of dancing firelight, darkness crouched, thick and heavy, in the corners of the room. Graden sat up with a groan and added more wood to awaken the blaze, then rummaged for supper in the nearest pack. The witch hunter's foraging woke his companion and she sat up, bleary eyed and rubbing the back of her neck.

"There's beans and barley in that bag." Tamara pointed to the one she had been using to cushion her head. I'll get some water." She stood, stretching as she reached for a torch stuck in the wall behind her and lighting it from the crackling hearth. The flickering brand quickly disappeared down the hallway as the girl stepped out of the study.

The house had been built atop a natural cistern, with a small well situated in the kitchen to serve the residents of the manor. Tamara followed the hallway, listening to the floorboards creak as she passed over them, the empty walls amplifying the sound of her footfalls. For a moment, she considered going down to the basement to pray at her shrine hidden there, but the dancing shadows in the stairwell slicked fear up her spine as she quickly walked past, taunting her cowardice. _"There's nothing to fear for the fire warms me."_ She whispered in an undertone as she pushed open the door to the kitchen. An unnatural movement drew her eye from the far wall and beckoned her further into the room. The tableau that greeted her made her guts squeeze in horror. How could it be? She had just left him in the study! Graden gasped at her, suspended by a large butcher knife through his trachea, pinned to the far wall, torchlight flickering off his bloodless face as his mouth opened and closed and life drained out of his eyes. His hands fluttered helplessly at his side and the steady drip of his blood as it fell to the bleached wooden bones of the floor echoed off the walls. The spreading crimson pool at his feet reflected torchlight and glimmered malevolently. Terror ripped a desperate scream from Tamara's throat and held her immobile for a span of heartbeats, then she screamed again and backpedaled, coming up hard against someone. Or something.

An arm snaked around her waist as another hand rescued the torch from her nerveless fingers. She began to thrash against her captivity, stopping only when she saw Graden's face rimmed in the unsteady light. Collapsing against him, she gripped the lapels of his cassock and took a deep, shuddering breath. The big witch hunter stood, holding the terrified girl against him as he whispered soothing nonsense into her hair. He had jumped up and come running at her first piercing scream, the only thought in his head to protect her. "Shhh, shhh it's me. Tamara, it's me." His voice was low, soothing.

"Nn … no I saw … I saw … ! In there!" Tamara cried into his chest, huddling in the warm circle of his arms.

The witch hunter thrust the torch back into the kitchen and surveyed the room. Other than a thick layer of dust, there was nothing out of place. Pots and pans hung from hooks over a sturdy table while a bonnet and apron draped limply on a nail in the far wall, the laces swaying haphazardly in a draft. He could vaguely hear the steady drip of water and assumed it came from the well in the corner. What had frightened his companion so badly she shook against him like a child?

"Tamara, look. There's nothing here. See?" He coaxed. "Nothing at all. Now, tell me what you saw."

She wiped tears from her eyes with shaky hands, peering into the room. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she stepped away from Graden, suddenly aware of their proximity. "No … nothing." She stuttered, taking a closer look at the apron on the wall. "I mistook the apron for … something else. My imagination ran away with me. Let's get the water and start some supper." Covering her distress with bustling animation, Tamara snatched a heavy pot from one of the hooks before lowering the bucket into the deep cistern.

Fortunately, the water was pure and unsullied supplying them bountifully. They had dinner simmering over the cheery blaze in the study in no time at all and ate heartily of their simple, filling meal. The girl was unwilling to leave the room again while night reigned, so they cleaned their dishes and piled them to the side of the hearth. Tamara stared moodily into the glowing coals as they leaned against a narrow bench, her brows furrowed in some deep puzzle.

"Do you believe in haunts, Graden? If they're real, does the Fire protect us?" She had drawn her knees up and hugged her arms around them. Eyes dark in the shadows, she peeked at him, awaiting his answer.

Graden sat with his arms braced on his knees as he played with his dagger, thinking her question over. Once upon a time, he had all the answers. Back when he was a neophyte in the Church, when he first squired for Siegfried of Denesle as a penance for hubris, before the Order of the Flaming Rose was established. Had she asked the question even five years ago, he would have quickly answered that the Flame would protect them and evil would not be able to stand against the Fire. Now … he had done the unpardonable and read the books he was supposed to burn and his views on the power of the Eternal Fire would land him on a pyre if he were to voice them aloud. He knew there had to be real spiritual truth somewhere, but, more and more, he saw the Church of the Eternal Fire as just another cult that manipulated it's adherents and punished those it called out as boogiemen.

"I … according the Hierarch, true faith will shield one from the darkness." He shrugged eloquently. "I don't know of anyone who's faced a true spectre, though, other than a witcher. As for whether ghosts and wraiths exist, people think they do and maybe that's what gives them power." Scratching his chin, Graden pondered the fire for moment more. "Get some sleep, Tamara. Tomorrow will be another long day. I think it's time to dispense with playacting as priests, find some reliable mounts and get to Vizima as soon as we can." The girl nodded and bedded down, chasing sleep and hoping it was dreamless. Her companion sat, brooding into the fire long after she finally dozed off.


	10. For The Advancment of Science

The hum and whir of machines drifted through the lowest levels of Kaer Morhen as Kerrass made his way down stone stairs, piquing his curiosity. She had quietly invited him to visit the lab as the children cleared the supper dishes. As he approached a door at the northern terminus of the dungeon, his medallion jingled ever so slightly on its chain. Usually, in the presence of magic or monsters, it would dance merrily on his breast. Whatever lay beyond the laboratory door must be subtle. He knocked lightly on the wooden jam, blinking owlishly in the bright, artificial light that overflowed into the hallway as the door creaked open. Faced with an array of blinking lights and alien machines, he found himself wanting to poke around and learn how everything worked.

He watched as Micah scribbled in a leather bound journal with an odd looking quill, unaware of his presence, her auburn head bent in concentration. Kerrass didn't quite know what to make of the tiny woman. She wasn't a sorceress, as Vesemir had explained to him during practice in the upper courtyard, but she used signs and could even draw from wellsprings of power exactly like a witcher. She had certainly dumped him on his ass this morning, proving a mastery of the aard sign. It usually took witcherlings months, and sometimes years of practice to achieve half as much force and control as she had displayed in a fit of panic. The Cat had always just taken it for granted that his mutations enabled him to use the shorthand spells, now he wasn't so sure.

Growing bored of watching her, Kerrass finally stepped across the threshold and cleared his throat. Mica yipped and jumped slightly as her eyes flew toward him, momentarily startled, before her wide grin lit her face.

"Sorry, I have a tendency to hyper focus sometimes. Didn't expect you this quickly." She rose, taking his arm and ushering him toward a chair at the side of her desk. Perching on the edge of her own seat she looked at him, scratching idly at her vivid scar and nibbling her lower lip.

"I know you just got here this morning and you don't know me," she began. "Did Tris or any of the others say anything to you about my research?"

The lean Cat crossed his right ankle over his left knee. "No m'lady, no one said anything about it."

She nodded, making a humming sound before saying, "Probably wise of them. Do you know what happened here two weeks ago? I assume the guys filled you in?" When he nodded, she continued. "Well, you could say I'm one of those witcher's secrets. In fact, I'm the great-grandmother of every witcher that has ever lived."

Raising an eyebrow at her bold, if absurd, statement he replied, "I'm not quite sure I understand."

"You will soon," she murmured, pulling a strange object across the desktop toward him. The witcher watched in fascination as she tapped buttons on the horizontal surface of the device, making images appear on the glazed flat panel of the display. "I've got the entire megascope collection recorded here, but unless you want to spend four hours watching it, I'll just show you the basics. It'll give you the gist of things." She swiveled the computer toward him and he saw his own face reflected in the smooth screen, superimposed over tiny pictographs that marched in rows down one side. She looked down at her hands for a moment before meeting his eyes, her face solemn.

"It's ok if you get angry after seeing this," she assured him. "I want you to know that right off. You wouldn't be the first witcher to react that way. Just don't take it out on the machine, ok?" He nodded, mystified. She continued, "You can yell at me all you want, but I can't replace the equipment."

"I'd like to see the entire … what did you call it? ... Video?" He tried the new word out, tasting it as it flowed over his tongue. "What's this all about, anyway?" Asked the rangy Cat, crossing his arms over his chest as he poked an exploratory finger toward the keyboard.

"The video should explain most of it," she said, her lips twitching wryly as she gently intercepted his seeking hand and rapidly tapped a sequence that brought up a program interface. "Afterward, I'll answer any questions you have."

Kerrass inspected the headphones she handed him, stretching and twisting them before she rescued them and stuck them on his head. She showed him how to move the mouse cursor and start the movie when he was ready, then quietly resumed making notes in her journal as the video began to play.

At first, there was just a man speaking a foreign language, then Micah's voice piped in, translating his words to Northern common. As the presentation wore on, Kerrass watched the evolution of the Trial of the Grasses, the first successful mutations carried out on adult volunteers and the aftermath of many failures. He watched autopsies and postmortems, witnessed corrective surgeries, then subsequent trials informed by past failures conducted on younger and younger subjects. There were negligible improvements in the mortality, but greater success in tissue adaptation. The Cat took keen note of the new witchers' abilities compared to mundane humans and marveled at their atrocious sword techniques. Signs seemed to be notably absent and he wondered when they had been implemented for the first time. Finally, clearing his throat, Kerrass removed the headphones as the screen faded to black.

"So, what does this mean?" He gestured toward the laptop. You helped to create the Trial of the Grasses?" His brows were pinched slightly in thought. Micah offered him hot tea she had brewed while waiting for him to finish, soaking heat from her own steaming cup in her small hands.

"Actually, my research led directly to the Trials. I come from a different world where my life's work was trying to create human supermen. I was very close to that goal when I fell through a portal and landed in Velen."

He grunted, still skeptical even given the strange technology she used. Waving a hand at the computer, he asked, "Why show me this?"

She looked at him over the rim of her cup as she sipped her tea, taking her time before answering. "Several reasons. Among other things, I want to know how my colleagues changed my research. I also want to document the differences in mutations between the schools." Setting her cup down, she shrugged. "I also don't want to see the witchers die out. There are so few of you left! You have a unique culture, valuable knowledge that benefits and improves the world. I think that's worth preserving."

Kerrass made a rude sound in his throat and she scowled at him. "Unique culture," he said, "valuable knowledge. We're specialized exterminators catering to a rapidly diminishing market. Contracts are harder and harder to come by, and I can count the times on my left foot I've met other witchers on the Path in the last five years."

She rubbed her jaw, wincing in pain as she retorted quietly, "I think you're wrong, Kerrass. Another conjunction is coming within the next hundred years, bigger than any of the others have been. This world will need its witchers more than ever. Now is the time to ensure you're there when the need is the greatest."

"They'll get by," he retorted. "They're largely getting by without us now. No one will miss us, I assure you."

Snorting in frustration at his fatalistic attitude, she grumped, "On Earth, things were simple. I did what my superiors told me to do, supposedly for the betterment of humanity. Here, I can actually do something that really helps."

He scowled as a thought occurred to him. "You don't intend to put Tolly through the trials…"

"No," she reassured him. "I won't deny I haven't thought about creating a new mutation protocol. Nothing like the Trials, though. I DO want to identify the gene sequences responsible for your adaptation success and develop an assay - a biological test - that will identify future successful candidates, however." She sat back, continuing to massage the side of her face.

"Frankly, I don't see the point," he said in a bored tone. "Let the world roll on and fix their own problems." The little geneticist just shook her head, grimacing at him. "I should go, you're in pain and should rest." Kerrass began to rise from his seat.

"Actually," she blurted in a hopeful tone before he stood, "I was about to ask if you would let me collect some biological samples. Comparing your DNA to Jad's and the other witchers would help me greatly." She stood, gathering vials and other items from cubbies on her workbench and depositing them on a tray.

He shrugged as he looked on with interest. "What exactly do you want from me?"

"A little blood, scrapings from inside your cheek, and a small plug of hair, to start with." She handed him two covered jars and a sheet of paper with instructions. "Fill those when you wake up in the morning and bring them directly down here. If I'm not in the lab, just leave them on my bench. That's it."

Kerrass read the directions on the paper and looked at her askance. "You want me to …" Words failed him and he gestured at the paper.

"That's part of helping me understand why witchers are sterile," she nodded. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't necessary." Her face took on a delicate, rosy hue and she wouldn't meet his eyes. "It's ok if you say no. I won't pester you about it and no one else will be the wiser."

He scratched the back of his head, eyeing the little jars, then turned to consider the computer. "I'll make you a deal," he purred, his eyes lighting as he nodded at the laptop and rolled up his sleeve. "We'll call it a contract. You show me how to use that and let me see what you do with my specimens. In return, you can take whatever bodily fluid you want."

She returned his cheeky grin as she prepared the first vial, tying a tourniquet around his biceps and sticking him with a wide-bore needle. "You're a real pussycat, you know that?" Her nose crinkled when he groaned at her bad joke.

* * *

An hour later, the Cat scratched at the bandage Micah had placed over the puncture wound in his arm. He thought there would be more involved in specimen collection, but she had made fast work of it, filling the three vials in under a minute and scraping the inside of his cheek with a long, flat toothpick. Taking a plug of hair from the back of his scalp had been only slightly more involved and she had let him examine it before tucking it into yet another vial. He still owed her two more samples, but she gave him what she called a short course in navigating her computer, then let him peer through her microscope at his own blood while explaining the difference between red blood cells and white. He learned that capillary action allowed his blood to be sucked up into a tiny glass tube, and when she plugged one end of that tube and spun it in a centrifuge he could see his white cells piled between his red cells and his serum. The length of each column indicated his general health, she said. If the plug of white cells was longer than a certain standard, it meant infection. If it was smaller, it might indicate serious disease.

Kerrass looked at the two little jars she had given him, shaking his head and tucking them in a pocket. Laughing at himself, he admitted he had too much curiosity for his own good when he let her talk him into it. Strolling through the ground floor of the keep, he listened to the dying crackle of the great hearth as his steps led him out the front door. Winter's chill settled around him as the cold air froze in his nostrils and fat, icy snowflakes dusted his hair. Idly, he leaned on the stony half wall that bordered the path down to the practice yards enjoying the way light bounced off the bottom of the cloud cover, illuminating the old fortress in muted grays. Crunching snow under the careful step of a fellow witcher alerted him to Letho's approach as the rangy Cat turned to watch the big Viper. Silently, the huge witcher offered him a fat cigar, lighting one of his own with a quick flick of igni. They watched the snow accumulate for some time before the Viper took a heavy draw on his cheroot and spoke.

"She got to you." He nodded his head at the bandage. "Thought she might wait a day or two, all things considered, but I ought to know her better by now." Letho's Nazarian drawl was quiet, conversational.

"She's persuasive, I'll give her that." Kerrass chuckled.

"I was here the day she and Arek rode in," Letho murmured, "dragging that lab behind them. Watched the original megascope recordings as she translated for us." Ash tipped off the foot of his cigar and he sucked deeply at the head, making the tip glow brightly.

"You give her samples?" Kerrass sneered, blowing smoke rings through the snow.

"Hell yeah. I killed Demavend and Foltest for the chance to reestablish the Viper school." Ghosting tendrils of smoke curled around the Viper's head. "If she's successful, I plan on using her techniques."

"Why bother? Not like the world wants us." Kerrass short bark of derisive laughter bounced off the stone facade of the castle.

"The world seldom knows what it wants, and never what it needs." Letho nodded at the smaller man. "And I could give two shits what they think. I plan on rebuilding my school and training new witchers. By the way, did she tell you she thinks she can make female mutants?"

"The hell you say!" Kerrass thought of the little bottles with renewed interest. The Cat shook his head, taking another hearty draw from his stogie. "Do you think she'll do it? Damn."

Letho's grinding laugh bounced off cold stones. "If anyone can, it'll probably be her," he said, grinning lecherously. "Wouldn't mind me a witcher honey to make witcher babies with."

"We tried, you know?" Kerrass said quietly. "Tried to mutate female candidates not so long ago."

"And?" The tip of Letho's cigar sparkled red in the darkness.

"From what I heard, it didn't go at all well. Maybe the changes are just too harsh for a woman to bear." The lean man shrugged.

"Micah says it's all genetics," replied Letho. "Something like one in thirty boys in the general population has the right trait. You get your candidates, put them through initial selections and weed out most of them. You maybe get ten go through the Trial of the Grasses but seven of them will die anyway." A final puff consumed the rest of Letho's cheroot. He tossed the remains in the snow as he continued. "The incidence of the right gene in women is minuscule. Maybe less than one in a thousand. You put girls through the trials and what you'll mostly end up with is dead girls. Gotta find the right woman and that ain't easy."

It was Kerrass's turn to laugh as he stubbed out his cigar, saving the rest for later in a dry pocket. "Truer words, big man, truer words!"

"C'mon," Letho sneered. "Let's see if we can find Lambert's stash of vodka and get up a game of poker dice with Arek. I've been letting him think he can beat me easy. Time to win my small change back." They walked together toward the keep, their footprints erased by the falling snow.

* * *

Arek leaned against the laboratory wall, watching as Micah worked at the table. It was after midnight and his coin pouch was lighter. That would teach him to play poker dice with Kerrass and Letho when vodka was involved. Arek hadn't commented on how long the Cat spent with Micah, though a faint curl of jealousy tapped at his belly. He trusted his mate, but that didn't mean he trusted the other men in the keep. Winters could get cold and lonely.

Micah had looked up when the big Manticore came through the door but hadn't spoken while she worked. She had avoided him since lunch time, emerging from her lair only to put supper on the table for them and sneaking away without eating anything herself. She was entirely absorbed in her work, face plastered to the microscope and clicking the manual counter in her left hand rapidly as she twisted a knob on the instrument with the right. Finally, she turned off the microscope and pushed away from the table, stretching her back. Arek came up behind her, massaging her stiff muscles, grinning when he was rewarded by a purr of contentment rumbling from her throat. Enfolding her in his arms, he pressed his face to the top of her head and mumbled into her hair.

"Greta told me what happened this morning when Kerrass arrived," he murmured, laying his cheek beside hers. She turned to look at him, irritation sketched on her brow. He Stroked a thumb down her cheek as he noted the blue smudges under her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Pushing out of his arms to stand, she hugged her belly and refused to look at him. "Tell you what, Arek? That I had a flashback and could have seriously hurt someone? Was I supposed to announce it to the table?" Her peevish words echoed in the room.

Arek ruffled his fingers through his short cropped hair, making it stick out at odd angles. "You can't hide away down here forever, love."

"Try me." Her voice was rough around the edges, low and vibrating as it fluttered in her distress. She tried avoiding him, but the witcher easily cornered her and made her look at him.

"Micah," he used that sexy rumble that got to her every time. "I … all of us understand more than you think. Let me help you, please?" She closed her eyes, pressing her face into the roughened hand stroking her cheek. He caught the tear that trembled in her lashes and brushed it away.

"How?" She asked, refusing to raise her eyes to his. Her broken voice was killing him.

"Witchers don't meditate just to recall monster-hunting techniques," Arek said quietly. "It helps with the nightmares and memories, too."

"I don't know if anything will help," she whispered in despair, continuing to study her feet.

"If you want to get control over this, you can't let your body get weak or you won't have the strength to overcome what's in your head." His hands cupped her shoulders, pulling her toward him gently. She tried to escape, finding herself held fast as his arm snaked around her waist.

He smiled as he said, "You're going to eat if I have to force feed you. You know that, right?"

"Oh stop. I'm not hungry!" She huffed, trying to push past him.

"If you won't take care of yourself, I'll have to do it for you," he murmured, trying to pull her out of the laboratory.

"I'm fine," She protested, slapping at his shoulders. "I'll be fine. Stop fussing!"

"Bollocks." Arek swept her up, cradling her against him like a child and carried her upstairs to the kitchen. He set her down on one of the tables and dished up some stew bubbling gently over the night hearth. Setting the bowl in her hand, the Manticore looked at her expectantly, giving her no quarter.

"I'm not hungry," she declared again, swirling the spoon through chunks of vegetables and strands of meat.

"You haven't eaten in two days, Micah," he countered, holding up two fingers as he glared at her.

"My jaw hurts." Her expression turned mulish.

"It's not going to get better if you don't eat." He was reason itself as he argued with her.

Conceding defeat, she brought the laden spoon to her mouth. Moving her jaw to chew was still painful, but the vegetables and meat were tender enough to melt in her mouth and she had to admit it was tasty. Arek ensured she finished the last bite before offering her a cold cup of ale to wash it down. When she finished, he cupped her chin in his large hand, brushing his thumb over her lips as he kissed the tip of her nose.

"Let's go tuck each other in for the night, hmm?" Pressing his forehead to hers, Arek breathed in her scent, smiling into her eyes.

"You are such a bully." She said fondly, brushing her fingertips across his stubbled jaw. "I think I can walk on my own, though." She scooted off the table and took her lover's hand as she led him to their room.

She wasn't sure when she awoke refreshed the next morning if it had been the warm stew or Arek's tender lovemaking in the night that led to the first dreamless sleep she had enjoyed in two weeks.


	11. Blood on The Snow

Graden opened his eyes. Light filtered through a dirty window, telling him morning had finally arrived. Grit behind his eyes and a throbbing headache were testaments to a poor night's sleep. He looked around and, strangely, his companion was nowhere to be found. Irritated, Graden sat up and scratched the rough stubble under his jaw. How had he slept so soundly he missed Tamara getting up and packing their things out of the room? He rose to his feet, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. The room was frosty and little heat radiated from the dying coals on the fire grate. His boots echoed loudly in the room's absolute silence as they kicked up little dust motes that swirled for a moment before settling back on the rough plank flooring. Even his breathing seemed to thunder in his ears, too noisy in the preternatural stillness as he went to look for Tamara.

The hallway seemed to go on and on. He couldn't find the front door. Graden looked around as confusion made laps inside his skull. Why couldn't he find the front door? He didn't remember the hallway being this long. Maybe if he went down the stairs. Darkness crept through what little light remained of the dawn, crushing him along with any illumination. He could barely breathe as he made his way from stair tread to stair tread. His footsteps mingled with the creaking stairs, shattering the silence with pops and shrieks. Fear settled in his chest like a clenching fist, squeezing tighter and tighter till his ragged gasps barely supplied him with enough oxygen to stay conscious. A strange sound in the distance compelled him forward despite his swimming head, dragging him deeper and deeper into the bowels of the manner.

Gradan began to fight against the goads that prodded him forward. He felt their phantom knife pricks in his back and sides, felt them digging into his skin, felt an invisible meat hook plunge into his belly. It sent searing pain through his gut whenever he strained against it. He stumbled through door after door, finally tumbling to the ground after the last one. There was a shrine to the eternal flame with a fire bowl burning brightly. For a moment, Graden felt reassured and safe. Kneeling he held his hands out to the blazing warmth and began to recite the catechism of flame.

"Eternal Fire, which lighteth our hearts and giveth us light,

Heat us with Thy warmth," he murmured, hunching over as the steady pain in his belly increased as if the phantom meathook were twisting his bowels. "Dry our tears, burn our foes, embrace our friends in Thy care."

The candles started to sputter and flare, their flames turning an unearthly blue, the fire bowl, too, began to glow azure, casting demonic shadows all around him. Scuttling away, Graden began to cough violently as a deep voice began to chant. Almost. He could almost make out the words as he crawled away as fast as he could. The blue fire followed his tortuous path up the stairs. Each step behind him disintegrated just as his foot left it to seek another. The chanting grew to a roar as he reached the landing and stumbled to his feet. The door! There it was! He had to make it outside before the chanting stopped. He could barely breathe as the hall stretched on and on before him. Finally, he pushed out of the house into dim light that made him blink back painful tears. Rolling down the outside steps, Graden found himself on hands and knees as he looked up to the crooked oak dominating the courtyard. Something swayed, suspended from the hangman's noose in the tree. Moaning in pain he approached as sick fear clawed at him. He knew it wasn't the Baron's body. He reached out to turn the hanging corpse and looked into Tamara's bloated face. Her eyes opened and glared at him with burning blue fire lighting their depths.

"Wake up," she said as her hand stretched out to him. He scrabbled away, clutching at his belly and screaming.

"Wake up, Graden! Wake up! You're having a nightmare!" The girl shook him roughly, her voice loud in his ears as he jerked into consciousness.

"Tam … Tamara!" He rasped, gripping her shoulder as he sat up. Terror dogged him into wakefulness as the girl passed him a cup of hot tea. "What time is it."

"It's almost morning. Are you alright?" asked Tamara in a worried tone. "I don't know what happened here, but the sooner we put Crow's Perch behind us, the better off we'll be. You aren't the only one who had nightmares." Graden nodded as he finished his tea and stood up. Fully awake now, the echoes of his dream still dodged around in his mind playing hide and seek with subliminal imagery.

"Forget about wearing cassocks today, in fact, leave the damn things here," Graden grumbled, throwing his into a corner. "Pretending to be priests was a stupid idea from the beginning. We should have just taken the most direct route to Vizima rather than march around Velen."

"We didn't want to attract attention, remember?"

"What day is it?" Graden sounded peevish even to his own ears. "The eleventh of October? The twelfth?" He stood, glaring at the false light in the window, his brows drawn down in a stern expression. Tamara tilted her head in crepuscular light outlining her features in chiaroscuro.

"I think it's the thirteenth, actually," she murmured.

"We should have been in Vizima already. The hell with this cloak and dagger crap." Graden's voice was bitter as he yanked his satchel closed and held a hand to the girl, pulling her to her feet.

"Heatherton is half a day's hike along the road. We should be able to buy a couple of horses, including tack and saddles, and sell the mule," Tamara said, tapping her chin in thought. "We need to restock our food in any event and it's on the way. Vizima is a hard two days ride from there, assuming the roads are passable."

"Let's get going. There's still your father's body to take care of and I'd like to get that done quickly." Graden's regard was solemn as he watched the girl swallow and nod. For all her rancor against the old man, she had loved her father.

By tacit agreement, the companions finished packing and wasted no time leaving the brooding manor house. They stepped into the yard just as the sun breached the horizon casting glittering pink and gold streamers to reflect off new fallen snow. Their footsteps crunched lightly on the frozen grass as they made their way to the stables, turning their heads away as they passed the oak. They didn't notice the bloody baron was no longer swinging from his branch.

The stables loomed before them, cast in the last lingering shadows of the oak as morning light shimmered at the lintel. The large door creaked as they pushed it open, their shadows stretching in front of them as the dawn peeked over the horizon enough to outline them in a rosy glow. Silence reigned. Even in winter, there were birds in the morning, except here. No swallows, great tits, sparrows, siskins or blackcaps lent their voices to the day. Even the wind was still, the air bitingly calm. There was no sound from the mule and they approached his stall with unacknowledged fear clawing up their throats. Gloom reigned inside the stable until the door creaked shut behind them then suddenly booming open with an alien gust of cold wind. The sound resonated through them; Tamara screamed and Graden yanked his sword from its sheath. The mule, until that point quiet in the straw, leaped to its feet, squealing and braying in panic, kicking at the stall with all its might.

"It's just the wind! Just the wind!" Graden's words burst forth on gusted breath as he returned his sword to his side, hand shaking more than he wanted to admit. "Tamara, see if you can chock that door open while I calm the beast. Can't have it flapping open and closed on us all morning."

His good sense calmed the girl and she bustled to do as she was bid. Graden approached the mule, speaking softly and offering a bit of sugar to calm it down. When Tamara returned, her companion was speaking reassuringly to the animal, running a gentle hand over its neck. Unaccountably, she wished he would sooth her similarly, then shook her head to dismiss the thought as a provocative image rose to her mind.

"Let's get Clyde packed up. I want to leave as soon as possible," Tamara said through chattering teeth as she eyed the deep shadows in the huge, old barn.

"Clyde? Since when did you name the mule?" Graden teased, a smile ghosting across his lips as he slipped the bit between Clyde's teeth and adjusted the bridle over its ears.

"Since I got tired of just calling it 'the mule'." Her nose crinkled and her eyes sparkled with sass. Graden chuckled as her humor dispelled the creeping tension they had felt all morning.

"Here, you hold Clyde while I get the panniers in place. We still need to …" Graden's jaw bunched as his eyes cut to the wide open door against his will to glimpse at the tree. He shook his head and passed the leading strings to Tamara then turned to the baggage. Ten minutes later, they led the mule out of the barn into crisp, morning light. A spade clutched in his hand, the man started for the tree, intent on cutting the body down for burial. He came up short as he stared at the empty branches, that serpentine fear coiling at the base of his spine once more.

"Where is he?" Tamara's voice shook with the hammering of her heart. The tree rose above them, its twigs and branches rattling in a sudden wind that sprang unexpectedly from the air. It whistled and howled through the tree, sloughed around buildings and buffeted the puny humans mercilessly. Clyde trumpeted in panic, breaking away from Tamara's grasp on its halter plunging away from her and bolting toward the abandoned village. Plumes of snow, kicked up by the preternatural wind, swirled around the witch hunters, lacerating them in the frigid cyclone. Shadows gathered over the sun until the yard was plunged into a hellish twilight. Gradan's sword was in his hand and Tamara ripped hers from its sheath as the shadows coalesced into a monstrosity made of pure nightmare.

Bat-like wings dominated a twisted, caricatured body topped with the bloated face of Philip Strenger. Its eyes were blind, milky white, yet all-seeing. A foul-smelling, black ooze dripped from three-inch fangs in its distended jaws while long, needle sharp claws extended from misshapen hands and feet. It thrust a single, gnarled appendage toward Gradan and spewed a hideous laugh, turning the man's bowels to water and his knees to withered grass.

"In… in the name of the Eternal Fire… BEGONE!" Graden gasped. "I will not fear the terror, it is an illusion, the Fire protects me …" He ground out the catechism, desperately hoping for its power, knowing it was powerless. The monstrosity cackled again and surged forward, wings outstretched as it raked its claws at the witch hunter's face. He parried in time to avoid a wicked blow, but the force of the monster's strike sent him flying to his back. In an instant, the terrible thing was upon him, surging over him ready to plunge its fangs into his throat.

"Here! Here you piece of filth!" Screamed Tamara, flinging the fallen spade at their assailant. "Leave him alone!" White, sightless eyes whipped up as caustic black goo dribbled from a gaping maw, leaving a scorched trail of burns on Graden's flesh. It crawled toward the girl, sickening chuckles barking out of its throat.

Its movements reminded Tamara of a spider she once saw skittering up a fence post. She felt caught in its web as it minced right up to her, cocking its head back and forth as if trying to identify her scent. With a roar and a sudden explosion of movement, it raked sharpened claws across her face, sending her reeling to the ground. Three red weals rose on her cheek as she lay in shock for a moment. Blood welled in the wounds, gathering to fall in a single bead, painting a crimson flower in the snow. She tried to get up, pulling herself to her hands and knees. The beast leaped to her back, shoving her roughly to the ground and fastening its jaws around the back of her head. She was going to die. She knew she was going to die and waited for the harsh crunch of those jaws to crush her skull. The weight pinning her to the ground was suddenly gone and she rolled over in time to see a bright golden ball of light battering the thing away. Graden rushed to help Tamara to her feet and the two witch hunters clung desperately to each other, watching as the nightmare was driven into the stable. For just an instant before the golden light disappeared from view, Tamara thought she saw within its brilliance the form of a small girl. Words formed in her mind as she staggered next to Graden.

"Run, sister! Do not look back! Run now!" Sister? Who? But no! The child her mother lost that night! The lubberkin protecting her blood! Tamara grabbed Gradan's hand, hauling him down the road as fast as her legs could propel her. The man stumbled, slowing their flight for precious seconds before regaining his feet as they pounded past the deserted smithy. They ran until they were away from Crow's perch, the deserted hovels laughing as their boots rapped a hollow counterpoint on the bridge. They kept running until their bodies demanded they stop, dropping them in a barren field covered in thistles and frost.

Catching his breath, Graden reached out to grasp Tamara's jaw, inspecting the ragged scores across her cheek. He pulled a clean rag from his belt pouch and gently dabbed at the wounds till the bleeding stopped. Neither witch hunter spoke as he ministered to her, helping her to her feet, loath to let her go. Finally, the man cleared his throat and gestured with a nod toward the east.

"Clyde's waiting for us. Let's go." They looked down the fallow rows toward the mule, pawing the ground and looking for a frozen turnip or some forgotten rutabaga. Just beyond the field, they saw a slow trickle of smoke rise into the air and heard the telltale sound of a smith beating steel against an anvil. Making their slow way forward, they collected Clyde and trudged toward the warmth of human habitation, trying not to think of the horror they left behind them in the abandoned keep. It was time to regather and take stock. They still had a job to do.


	12. Homecoming

Rojhan the Kestrel entered the chasm concealed in the rocky escarpment, carefully leading his palomino mare and three pack horses through a fissure barely wide enough for a single dray cart to pass. Camouflaging magic should have made his medallion hum, but the silver Griffon's head was quiescent on his breast; Either the barrier had decayed till it finally failed, or a magic user had dispelled it. The scuffed dirt of the path told a story as the slender witcher crouched, amber cat eyes narrowed, to inspect the passage of two mounts led by a man and a woman. Rojhan scowled and pushed one hand through shaggy, shoulder-length blond hair before twirling the end of his mustache, deep in thought. This pair had passed through less than four hours ago and they obviously knew what they were looking for; No one just fell upon the Oubliette by accident. Other than the traces of small animals and birds, the passage had remained undisturbed since Rojhan had left the Aerie, sixty years ago.

The witcher stood and looked back the way he had come. Rojhan had abandoned the Griffons' keep when he finally realized he was the last. Though his path led him half a world away, nostalgia had finally spurred him to return. Late in the summer, the Kestrel decided it was time to revisit his old school in the Tir Torchar mountains, just to assure himself it was still there. He took a ship from Ofir, landed on the shores of Maecht a mere ten days ago, and bought a winter's worth of supplies before setting off toward home. Amazingly the old trails weren't closed off with snow yet as he followed the Velda river to this hidden mountain pass, though they were treacherous with ice and he took it slow for the sake of the horses.

Once inside The Oubliette, the trail was easily passable unless there were rockfalls to contend with. When Griffons still roosted here, the path had been kept clear year round, allowing supplies to be delivered to the fortress. Soaring two hundred and fifty feet high, the gray granite cliffs gradually leaned toward one another before narrowing into a tight, jagged crack at the very top. Sunshine dribbled down, filtered and focused by that narrow slit, to paint a golden line in the dust. Climbing these walls in all weather had been a large part of his early witcher training. His short, slender frame was an asset, allowing him to wiggle into the squeeze chimney easily when other recruits struggled and scraped to emerge onto the long, rocky ridge above. The small witcher sneered to himself. Despite the horrors of being mutated, his childhood had been a boy's dream. Climbing, riding, brawling and learning to fence with swords had been great fun to him. He knew many of his brother witchers hated having no choice in their youth, but Rojhan considered a life on the Path a small price to pay for growing up a Griffon.

He returned his attention to the tracks in front of him. Golden glitter caught his eye and the Kestrel picked up a few strands of pale blond hair, rubbing them between his fingers and holding them to his nose as he breathed in their fragrance. Delicate scents of freesia danced with undertones of White Gull and Swallow. A witcher and a sorceress then. Judging by the pattern of tracks, they were lovers. Rojhan pieced the story together, letting their footprints string him along. The witcher had picked the woman up here, spun her around and set her down there. Standing very close together, and he had run his hand through her hair, loosening a few strands before moving off. The woman's step was light, narrow and had a shorter stride than the man. Her companion carried his weight forward, on the balls of his feet and kept his center of gravity low, between his hips and knees. He moved with finesse, leaving minimal traces despite being armed and armored as he placed his feet with practiced care.

Rojhan followed them through the narrow, rocky corridor till it ended at a thick gate that opened into an overhanging alcove. Store rooms to left stood empty and forlorn while an extensive stables complex occupied the right-hand side of the shelter. A skewbald gelding stood in the first stall next to a pretty dapple mare, eying Rojhan and the new horses placidly.

"C'mon, Pooka. Let's get you and the boys settled," muttered the Kestrel as he led the horses to adjacent stalls, settling them briefly before striding toward the glare of late morning sun at the far end of the alcove. Brilliant light spilled over the high peaks and cascaded into the natural, alpine bowl, casting the stone works of the keep in golden relief. Unlike most castles, Kaer Ard'eryie didn't have curtain walls or battlements. She didn't need them, tucked as she was in the high peaks of the Tir Trochars. Her back and flanks lay against a thousand feet of jagged cliffs, and she faced a three thousand foot vertical chasm overlooking a long forgotten lower saddle in the mountains below. Built on a series of cascading ledges that swept to the floor of the natural amphitheater, the levels were connected by a series of walkways, ramps, and stairs carved from the living stone. The ever present wind whistled through archways where doors had rotted away and A flock of rock wrens startled at Rojhan's approach.

For a moment, he allowed memory to wash over him and his fists bunched at the unaccustomed tightness in his chest. There to his left was the practice yard, the floor of the amphitheater, where Griffon initiates were molded into witchers over the centuries. Rojhan ambled forward and stopped at a particular flagstone. He crouched and ran his hand over a concave divot and it's collected dew, smiling. This was where he learned brute strength wasn't always the best answer.

Old Sawlegs, they had called him, a human mercenary and bounty hunter that spent several winters at the keep, a guest of one of the masters. The old man's hand a half sword was taller than Rojhan had been at fourteen and half as broad. Sawlegs had been high on fisstech when he had taken umbrage at something and come after Rojhan with murder in his eyes. The witcher couldn't remember any longer what set the man off, but the old coot had nearly killed him. The Kestrel had swiftly dodged under the barreling sword, slamming the old man's nuts through his throat with a well-placed kick. The bounty hunter's blade shattered when it chiseled this divot in the stone. Before the fight, the masters had despaired of Rojhan ever being a proper witcher. He hadn't the stature for it, they claimed, but the boy had proved that day height didn't make a Griffon.

Tucking the memory away, Rojhan stretched to his full five foot, three inches before following his quarry to the elevator, a winch operated platform that accessed the lowest chambers of the Aerie. Scowling, the witcher prowled around channel cut into the vertical rock below him. He had destroyed the winch and platform the last time he was here, just in case someone got in and thought to explore where they shouldn't. The only thing intruders would want down there were the mutation labs. Rojhan swore colorfully and stripped his gloves off, stuffing them in his belt. He would have to down-climb the chute. The rock walls were relatively smooth, but there was a finger width fissure that ran along one corner and micro-ledges that caught the light as he looked down. The chute was too wide for him to chimney at eight feet across. He would have to depend on standard face techniques and hope that crack in the corner held true for the entire three hundred foot drop to the bottom. At least he could corner the descent and use the abutting walls to his advantage. He briefly considered removing his footwear but Rojhan decided to leave his hobnail boots on, hoping for better traction in the vertical slit.

Breathing deeply, the Kestrel knelt and meditated long enough to get himself in a focused state, pushing from his mind the fact that if he made any kind of misstep, he would fall to his death. Calmly, he lowered himself over the lip of the cut and started his descent. Everything went well for the first hundred feet, then the fissure petered out and the witcher had to make a harrowing traverse to use a fist sized crack on the other side of the channel. He thought it was all over when his right foot slipped off a quarter inch flake and he dangled two hundred feet off the deck by the shredding skin of his fingertips. Keeping his wits, Rojhan got his feet back on the rock and finished the traverse, allowing himself the luxury of reaction when his fist was locked into the crack. The rest of the down-climb was anticlimactic until twenty feet from the floor of the cavern. He had to traverse ten feet of overhang before he could safely get on the ground. A pair of parallel cracks in the roof made it quick, and soon he was standing on solid ground.

Rojhan had seen no evidence of ropes while descending the chute, so his quarry had either climbed down as he had or used magic to get here. Betting on the latter, he cast around to find their tracks again. Twenty feet from the elevator platform he picked up the trail. Listening carefully, he heard soft mutters of two voices in the distance. One was high pitched and cultured, the other low and surely.

"There you are," grumbled Rojhan, sneaking toward his prey, tugging his gloves on and slipping his steel wakizashi from his back. "Let's just see what you're up to, shall we?" The voices clarified as he approached until he could pick out their words.

"Lambert, what's this?" The woman's voice, soft, high-pitched and cultured floated in the air, accompanied by the thump of books being dropped on the floor.

"Stop messing with that, will you Keira? Don't be disrespectful. Kids died down here," the man snarled. "Fucking hell. Why did I let you and Micah talk me into this?" Lambert sounded like a right prick but Rojhan couldn't fault his sentiments.

"She wants documentation and any remaining mutagens," said the woman.

The small witcher rounded a corner and sneaked into the large room. Flickering torchlight splattered the floor as it illuminated the pair rooting through bookshelves and cupboards. Creeping forward, the Griffon watched the petite blond woman lift a wooden box and blow dust from its surface.

"I think these might be the mutagens." She showed the box to the tall, dark haired witcher with a wolf medallion. The Griffon allowed a pebble to grind loudly underfoot as he approached, glaring amber daggers at the intruders. Startled, they looked at him like guilty children caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar.

"Put that down and walk away," growled Rojhan, advancing into the room. "I don't know what you think you're doing here, but it's time for you to leave."

Lambert stepped in front of Keira as he reached for the steel longsword on this back. "And who the hell are you?"

"I'm the caretaker, mate, and I'm not about to let you pilfer my keep." Rojhan's smile was hideous as he twirled his short, curved saber, making it whistle and sing in the dusty air.

Lambert held his blade ready as he circled the small man, drawing Rojhan away from his companion.

"Lambert! He's a Griffon!" Keira gasped thrusting herself between the combatants despite their indignant glares. She turned to the small witcher, studying him intently. "We thought you were all dead. No one's seen a Griffon school witcher for over a hundred years."

"Still doesn't give you the right to come down here," Rojhan spat. "What do you want with witcher secrets anyway? Don't Wolves have their own?" Rojhan flipped his sword in an intricate figure eight pattern, taking a step forward.

"Get out of the way, Keira," Lambert snarled in his turn.

"Put the swords away!" Keira commanded, holding out a hand to each man. "We can discuss this like reasonable human beings. I'm sure when … what's your name by the way?" The blond woman tilted her face, crinkling her cornflower blue eyes at the small witcher.

The Griffon scowled but replied nonetheless, "Rojhan the Kestrel."

"I'm sure when Rojhan understands what's going on, he'll help us with our mission." Keira smiled brightly, imploring Lambert with her eyes to go along with her.

"I'm willing to hear you out," said the Griffon, lowering his sword a fraction, "but this better be good."

Lambert, still glaring, sheathed his sword as Keira talked. She spoke of the recent attacks on Kaer Morhen and the push by the Church of the Eternal Fire to steal witcher secrets and, after a few pointed questions, the Kestrel scrubbed his jaw in thought.

"So you're here to make sure Griffon secrets don't fall into their hands. I assume you're the one who dispelled the wards?" At Keira's nod, Rojhan grunted. "You do know if you hadn't removed the barrier, the keep would be safe, right?"

"Don't bet on that," growled Lambert. "The church has a stable of captive mages willing to do anything to save their own skins."

Rojhan slid his wakizashi into its sheath with a solid thunk and prowled the room, muttering under his breath, "I should have paid more attention to gossip along the way." Out Loud, he said, "OK, I'll trust you - for now. Don't see as I have much of a choice. I might beat you both in a fight, then again I might not, and all it would accomplish is bloodshed for all of us. But why not just destroy everything and be done with it?"

"Come back to Kaer Morhen with us and we'll introduce you to the reason why," Keira grinned, moving to place the wooden box with a stack of books and instruments.

"Damn, and I just got home," grumbled the Griffon. They worked quickly and soon the witchers and sorceress had the labs stripped. Keira cast a modified teleport spell on the pile, sending it directly to Kaer Morhen as Rojhan and Lambert looked on.

"Should probably make sure no one can get in the keep before we leave." The Kestrel tugged his mustache. "There's plenty still here to protect."

"We could collapse part of the pathway," suggested Lambert. "Are there other ways in?"

"Nothing easy. The Oubliette is the only path we had for bringing in supplies," Rojhan said.

"Let's get back up top. Do I portal us up or can we take the stairs?" Keira grinned at the Griffon. Despite grumbling and protests, both witchers elected to take Keira's portal, emerging onto the practice yard as the sun began to tip toward late afternoon. Before leaving for Kaer Morhen, they worked together to block the chute to the mutation labs and the entrance of the Oubliette into the keep. Finally, Rojhan was satisfied that Kaer Ard'eryie was as safe as it would ever be from interlopers.

"Let's get back to Kaer Morhen," Lambert said. "It's beautiful here, but I need a jigger of vodka to wash the dust from my throat." As the sun began to sink in the west, Keira opened another portal. Leading the horses into the swirling blue-black roar, the company vanished, leaving the Aerie to its solitary vigil.

They arrived at Kaer Morhen's temporary stables in the midst of funeral preparations. Arek was speaking quietly to Micah as Kerrass and Letho secured saddlebags to Saki, Arek's mare.

"There you are! Knew you were on the way when those books and supplies appeared," said Vesemir as the three newcomers emerged from the roaring portal. His shaggy brows rose in surprise as he took in the Griffon standing uncomfortably to the side as Lambert and Keira were welcomed home. "Who is this? Don't just stand there, young man, come make yourself known." The old man's voice was gruff but kindly as he introduced Kerrass to the newcomers and Lambert presented Rojhan. Letho clasped Rojhan's hand, peering at him with a considering look. "You sure you're tall enough to be a witcher?" The viper broke out in a wide grin and laughed.

"We'll have to settle that question later," said the Kestrel through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing as he watched Lambert hoist two children onto the mare's saddle. "We have other business to attend to now."

The old Wolf slapped the small man on the shoulder with a considering look, then said, "There's more than inches that make a witcher. You'll get a chance to prove that tomorrow during morning practice." He eyed Letho as he spoke, then looked toward the leaden sky. "Let's get moving. Weather is good enough now, but we'll see a real storm let loose soon. I plan to be inside with some mulled wine and a plate of hot food by the fire when it sets in."

"Why not just wait till tomorrow for the funeral?" Asked Micah, ambling over with Arek at her side. Rojhan realized with a jolt he was taller than the tiny woman by a good few inches.

"Won't be able to get to the lake again without snowshoes or skis till spring thaw," Lambert replied, holding Saki's reins in one hand, his other settled about Keira's waist. "We got back just in time."

Thick tufts of snow began to fall as the sun dipped low in the west sending its last rays of light teasing around the curve of the mountains. Low clouds drifted in tatters amongst the treetops, adorning their branches with frosty veils as wolves sang a requiem for the dead. Carefully leading the nimble mare, Lambert picked his way down the tumbled stones of the outer curtain wall and caught up with the rest of the funeral party. Kerrass and Vesemir flanked him as the three witchers led the solemn procession toward the lake. The horse bore the children along with the remains of Letitia Karadin and the witcher Kiyan. Micah and Keira fell in behind Saki, escorted by Rojhan, as Arek and Letho brought up the rear. Despite earlier snows, the road was passable and the party traveled swiftly, arriving at the lakeside just as the last of the evening sun was extinguished. Two cairns, one holding Jad Karadin's ashes and the other newly built in the last week, stood side by side, awaiting the procession.

"Lambert, get Greta and Tolly down while Kerrass and I prepare the ashes," Vesemir ordered in hushed tones. "Arek, Letho, you two move that capstone off Jad's grave. Best do this before the wolves get curious. Rojhan, get those torches lit. The girls can't see in the dark, you know."

Quietly, the men did as the old witcher ordered while the rest of the party formed a loose semi-circle facing the lake. Vesemir helped the children pour Letitia's ashes into their father's simple brass urn while Kerrass settled Kiyan's vessel into place. When the urns had been tucked inside the cairns, the witchers replaced the capstones and stepped back. Torchlight danced, encapsulating the mourners in an intimate bubble of light as they stood in silent vigil. Finally, Kerrass broke the hush, his voice low and vibrating with carefully held emotion.

"Letitia Karadin was a good woman," he murmured softly, head bowed. "She accepted me as if I were her own brother, shared her home and family with me, because of her love for my brother, Jad. I'll never forget her." The lean man cleared his throat roughly as Tolly limped forward to lay a carved wooden horse on the cold stones of his parent's tomb and Greta set a beloved rag doll next to her brother's offering. The little girl's fingers stole into the Cat's larger hand as she scrubbed her eyes with a delicate fist.

Vesemir stepped forward, laying a hand on Kiyan's grave pinning each witcher present with his gimlet stare. "The world is not a friendly place for our kind and no witcher ever died of old age in his own bed. When one of our own falls to a monster or in defense of innocent people, we can say the man died like a witcher." The old Wolf looked down at the snow lacing the toes of his worn boots, then continued. "Even if a witcher walks a crooked path, he's still one of us. Kiyan was tortured in mind and body before he finally succumbed to a mad mage's experiments. Geralt of Rivia ended his suffering and Kerrass of Maecht returned this brother to us so we could honor him now. May the earth lie lightly upon you, Kiyan of Caingorn, and may you rest easier in death than you did in life."

As the wind began to keen amongst the trees the funeral party returned to Kaer Morhen, leaving snow to shroud the cairns behind them.

* * *

 **Kaer Ard'eryie - Castle of the Griffon … literally, Fortress of the Mountain Eagles.**


	13. Shadows and Blizzards

**16 October 1272**

"More tea, Tobold? You know it's good for the constitution," Hierarch Hemmelfart chuffed as he leaned forward, motioning an acolyte to fill Muire's cup. "What of your progress?"

The commander of the Temple guard kept his face still as he stirred his unsweetened beverage. He never used sugar or honey, believing it dulled the intellect. "The Balleteyn Massacre complicated things. " said the remarkably unremarkable man, his agile brain ticking over facts as he recounted them.

"Redania's Council of Nobles isn't as unified as they like to pretend in support of Radovid. There's a groundswell of resentment against the king, Redania is on the verge of civil war."

"While I applaud his devotion to the Eternal Flame and his staunch support of our policies," grumbled Hemmelfart, "this won't do. This won't do at all. What of the situation in Kaedwen? What of Kovir and Povis?" The aged high priest wheezed heavily, his breath rattling in his chest. Tobold Muire thought the Hierarch looked distinctly unhealthy. The chill air wasn't good for him. The hierarch cleared his throat and continued, "These things take careful timing you know."

Tobold Muire nodded in agreement and sipped from his bone china cup. The tea was quite good. Not too sharp, with just the right hints of jasmine and ginseng. He paused before answering, "Kaedwen is essentially a vassal of Redania, now. It will remain a useful puppet state no matter what happens. Our priests are well entrenched, preaching the light of the fire. Archpriest Willemar oversees their efforts." The commandant's fingers traced the rim of the delicate, china cup and his unremarkable eyes met the Hierarch's hazy blue gaze under a raised brow. "Kovir and Povis require finesse. I'll have more to report soon."

"Willemar," grumbled Hemmelfart, sipping his tea and trying to get comfortable. "Supported Radovid's Belleteyne spectacle. We are not pleased. What of Foltest's brat?"

"We'll find her soon. I've two agents in Velen now and another trailing the witcher." Tobold rose to gaze into the blizzard obscuring Novigrad Harbor. "Regardless if she's found dead or alive, we can use her to fix our interests in what remains of Temaria."

The sage priest nodded. "Sometimes, it is easier to work with a sainted martyr than a questionably compliant tool. Do we know where her brother is? What is his disposition to the Church?"

"The LaValettes were never deeply faithful to us, sadly. Rumors place him on the outskirts of Tretogore, fomenting sedition amongst the people - against the king and the Church."

"We desire he not become a martyr," wheezed the high priest, "though if could conveniently pass on of, say, dysentery, we would mourn suitably. No one ever idealized a man who shat himself to death," The high priest seemed to slip into his nap then, his gurgled breath the only sound in the room besides the sputtering fire on the grate. Tobold waited. He hadn't been given leave to quit the interview yet. Ponderously, the hierarch spoke again.

"Nilfgaard will attack soon. Are the temple guard prepared?" He coughed into a crisp, linen hanky that came away spattered with bright specks of blood and inspected it briefly before tucking it away under his cassock.

"Yes, Excellency. My witch hunters know their orders." Muire murmured softly. "I have a special group selected to accompany the king. Are we set on this course? It means handing the North to Nilfgaard."

"It really doesn't matter who sits on the throne," said Cyrus Englekind, "the Church will ultimately rule the hearts of the people." Tobold merely nodded his agreement.

"My hunters have their orders for the coming battle. Radovid remains useful to us, even more so once the dust has settled." Muire's implication slid off the stone facings around the window, frosting the leaded glass.

The Hierarch settled himself back in his cushioned armchair, preparing for his nap. "You have the right of it, Tobold. I trust you to see it through."

"Yes, Excellency."

"Oh, and Tobold?" muttered the old priest.

"Yes, Excellency?"

"Send in Willemar, would you?

"Of course, Excellency."

* * *

Eskel burrowed into his woolen traveling cloak, pulling the hood tighter around his head as driving corn snow left his exposed skin red and raw. He had traded some horseshoe nails and a small bag of dried apples two days ago for a knitted cap, mittens, and scarf, and now he was thankful for the extra insulation. In case he had forgotten why witchers huddled snug in their lairs from October to March, today was a good reminder. Bitter wind blasted around Scorpion's legs, whipping white, icy fingers up the stallion's chest as the horse plowed valiantly through two feet of accumulated snow. Eskel knew he better find shelter soon or he and his black thoroughbred would likely freeze to death. He thought back on the sage advice old Braccan in White Orchard had given him before he set out this morning.

"Hoy, witcher," had said the wizened innkeep as Eskel saddled his stallion, "Big storm's comin', ye best to lie tight and warm here the next few days. Like as te come on by midmorning at th' latest." The old man's words proved true and now the scarred Wolf and his mount struggled through the blinding white-out. What should have been an easy three-hour journey from White Orchard had taken him seven slogging hours fighting the elements.

Eskel raised his eyes to squint into the storm and breathed a sigh of relief as the walls of Vizima rose up before him like a promise, dark smudges in the white landscape of the worsening blizzard. He approached the North gate just as the storm let loose with its full fury, muffling his hammering blows against the thick wood of the guard door. Luck and gold were with him as the guards took pity on his horse and let them in. Likewise, the stablemaster in the Royal quarter billetted Scorpion despite the man's obvious disdain toward mutants. Eskel was sure his luck would run out, but the innkeep at the Fox only charged him double the usual rate for room and board for the duration of the storm. Tucking himself into a dark corner to nurse a mug of hot cider and a savory bowl of chowder, Eskel hunkered down as he eavesdropped on the other guests. The tavern was packed with traveling merchants gone to ground in the storm and locals wishing some lively company in the warm taproom. Most of what he heard was unremarkable - the price of chickens at the market square, a man bemoaning the fate of his unmarried daughter, lovers enjoying a snowbound tryst. The words of a merchant to a rowdy group of locals riveted his attention.

"I tell you, I was there in May when the King held the bloody feast," said the grizzled trader as he quaffed a mug of home brew. "Invited all his kith an' kin, then set all o'er the age of twelve on pikes alongside his sister, Milena. Accused them of sedition and witchcraft, he did. He made all the little'uns watch their mums and daddies die, then stuck 'em in his dungeon. Me cousin's a cook in the prison and 'e told me it's all hush hush, but they take those kiddies and send em to be et by the mad king's pet monster."

"All the nobles?" Asked a listener.

"All who was related to him. The rest had to watch so as they wouldn't get bright ideas of tippin' 'im off his throne. Got right paranoid they was hatchin' plots to assassinate 'im." The merchant's words began to slur as his audience made sure his earthenware mug stayed full.

"I heard Radovid appointed Churchmen to their estates and titles, signed all the papers before the blood was even dried on them poles," said another listener.

"What about Queen Adda? Why didn't she put a stop to this?" Asked one matron, sidling close to the merchant.

"Adda the White ain't been seen since Radovid's coronation two years ago, but now the labyrinth under the dungeons is inhabited by somethin' as hunts what's sent to it! It's the gods' honest truth!" intoned the trader at the skeptical looks around him, sweeping his audience with a meaningful, if inebriated gaze. "Radovid found a way to turn her into a strigga again! So says me cousin." He tipped his mug, draining it before holding it out to be refilled.

"Aiyee go on w'ye, ya old fardle. Jes' full o' drunken tales ye are," dismissed a fishwife on the merchant's other side. Even Radovid couldn't be so evil as all that, not that I don't want 'im to be."

"Oh, but 'e is," said a sallow chap with the rough look of a farm laborer down the table from the fishwife. "The witch hunts'r gettin' out o' hand in Redania an' even the Fire's faithful ain't likin' it so much anymore. 'Swhy me 'n the family'r 'eadin' south. Gonna try our luck in Dol Blathanna with th' elves."

The merchant nodded again, swaying as he quaffed another round of ale. "Aye. There's those as are gatherin' unner young LaValette to oppo … oppsos … get rid o' the king an' all the Eternal Fire prigs he shuhruounds hisself with."

"Well, here's to LaValette, then!" Shouted another crude looking fellow as the assembled company raised a toast.

Eskel took a large bite of chowder, his swift mind churning behind an impassive face as he chewed over the information. He had heard the rumors about the Belleteyn massacre and the children sacrificed in the dungeons when he hunted in upper Kaedwen in June. As terrible as the stories were, most people north of the Pontar had other concerns, such as avoiding southern annexation of their lands. The sole worry south of the river was survival during the Nilfgaardian occupation. If the people of Redania were ready to rise up against Radovid and spark a civil war, things must have gotten dire. He scratched his chin in thought. Young LaValette could refer to Anais, but he would lay orens on it being Baron Aryan LaValette. If a Temarian noble was leading a grassroots rebellion against Radovid, the situation was beyond dire.

A commotion outside the inn snapped the witcher out of his reverie. The Fox's front door burst open with a bang and a gust of blowing snow, tumbling a patrol of imperial soldiers into the warmth of the tavern. Eskel huddled deeper in his corner, doing a credible impression of the woodwork as the squad leader surveyed the taproom and spoke softly with a barmaid, making the scarred man's ears prick and the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle when he heard his own name. Downing the remains of his meal he watched the Salamanders approach through the shifting crowd, a veritable wall of black enameled armor and bristling weapons.

"Vatt'ghern." Eskel looked up into the stony faces of the seven Impera Brigadesmen. "You are summoned to the Palace. Come with us immediately" The Wolf stood, gripping his swords in a fist and tossing his saddlebag over his left shoulder with a resigned sigh. He had just gotten warm.

Snow piled thick in the streets, rounding edges and hiding details under a winter blanket. It softened every unpleasant detail, transforming the city into a magical land, if only for those who watched from rooms warmed by cheery fires in the company of friends and family, whose bellies were full and for whom the winter presented neither pain nor frozen death. Eskel trudged between the guards as they plowed through the streets, finally arriving at the palace gate where he was stripped of his belongings and a dour-faced chamberlain escorted him to a sumptuous suite of rooms.

"I am Mererid, the head chamberlain. If the gentleman has any concerns, he may address them to me," intoned the little man with a twitch of his nose as he leaned forward to affect a disdainful sniff. "A bath shall be brought and the gentleman will avail himself of it. If he is hungry, food will be provided. He need only to make his desires known to the staff."

"How long am I supposed to wait here?" asked the scarred Wolf, brows crashing over his eyes.

"You will be summoned soon. Until then, you are to make yourself comfortable."

"My swords and gear would make me comfortable," growled the witcher, sneering at the chamberlain.

"You will receive your belongings once your audience has concluded." Mererid didn't bat an eye as he strode to hold the door open for a parade of footmen carting buckets of steaming water, piles of towels, soap and clean clothes.

"Now, if the gentleman pleases, he will disrobe so we may remove his clothing to the laundress." The chamberlain left the room as Eskel allowed the bathing maids to stripped him of his worn leathers and small clothes. Soft giggles accompanied their softer hands as they pressed him into the large tub and set about scrubbing every inch of him.

* * *

Three days later, the scarred witcher grimaced and stretched his armpit encased in the tight doublet, pulling at the equally tight trews as he scuffed his fancy shoes across the back of his calves. He had been treated to warmth, companionship, delectable food and fine wine all served in the sumptuous prison cell that was his room. He was heartily sick of it and ready to return to his hunt.

"If the gentleman will refrain from fidgeting, please. You are being summoned before the Viscount de Rideaux, not the local chamber of commerce." Mererid was at his haughty best as he lectured the witcher on deportment. Eskel scowled and stood still while the royal dresser finished adjusting the lay of his fine, linen undershirt. This morning had dawned beautifully, with bright blue skies and a surprisingly warm sun for so late in October, pouring down on a white-clad world. Teams of horses were driven through the streets to compact the snow, making travel possible as rowdy children threw snowballs at each other. Mererid had entered briskly shortly after Eskel awakened to shoo him into yet another bath. His face was shaved and his hair trimmed, though the witcher put his foot down when the royal barber attempted to conceal his scars with creams and powders.

"I don't give a good godsdamn if my face offends Nilfgaardian sensibilities," he growled in such a menacing way that poor Cledwyn blanched and stumbled back half a step, the powder pot dusting the Aubusson carpet in a layer of white.

After dressing and a perfunctory lesson in court manners, the Wolf followed Mererid to an office tucked behind a multitude of black armored guards bristling with partisans, guisearmes, bardoches, and glaives. The Chamberlain genuflected low upon entry to the room and, to the little chamberlain's surprise, Eskel executed a fluid and graceful bow of his own.

"I had thought to entertain Geralt of Rivia," muttered Vattier de Rideaux, smoothing back black hair streaked with silver as he stood, nodding his dismissal toward the Chamberlain and looking anything but surprised. The witcher shrugged eloquently, glancing around the room, noting the positions of windows and doors. They were alone in the Viscount's mahogany paneled office.

"Geralt is … disposed. Sorry to disappoint you."

"No matter," declared the black-clad nobleman shortly, "Witchers from the school of the Wolf enjoy a singular reputation for professionalism and discretion. I trust you will not disappoint in that regard." De Rideaux gestured toward a seat and held up a bottle of est est with an inquiring look. At Eskel's nod, he poured two flutes and passed one to the witcher.

"The emperor wishes to offer you a contract. Are you familiar with the LaValette family?"

Eskel sipped his wine slowly before replying. "Only by hearsay. Never had a chance to meet any of them."

"The contract involves the LaValette children," Vattier murmured. "You are to find both Baron Aryan LaValette and his sister, Anais, and return them here to the palace. You will be well rewarded."

"I'm not a bounty hunter. What if they don't want to cooperate?" Eskel brow lowered over his golden eyes as he awaited an explanation.

"Let's not waste time in posturing, witcher. I am well aware that Sigismund Dijkstra hired you already to find Foltest's youngest child," mocked the Viscount as he swirled his wine. "And do not pretend you misunderstand the chit's importance."

"Alright, so you want the little girl to secure your claim to Temaria," spat the scarred wolf. "What do you want Baron LaValette for? If I'm going to go hunting for him, I think I should know why."

De Rideaux's smile reminded Eskel of rancid oil. "Content yourself knowing it is a matter of state."

The Wolf's grin was no less slick as he stood up. "Then content yourself with a different delivery boy."

"As you wish, witcher," the viscount sighed, considering the play of light through his wine before waving Eskel back into his seat. "Redania will lose this war. Rather than installing Southern nobles to govern the Northern territories, the Empire finds it more efficient to allow the kingdoms to retain individuals with blooded interests to manage the lands." Vattier paused, tapping the side of his nose with a long, slim finger. "It creates more harmony for the inhabitants. More harmony means more productivity and that benefits everyone. We already have Temaria sorted out, but Redania and Kaedwen will need strong leaders to ensure the transition is smooth and unhindered. In short, we wish to offer young LaValette his own duchy in exchange for his fealty."

"You said you already had Temaria sorted out." The witcher tipped his head back in thought as he said, " Why do you want Anais?"

"Why, that should be apparent," de Rideaux seemed genuinely surprised at the question. "She will be raised in Nilfgaard under strict fostering and tutelage. When she is of an appropriate age, she will be married to someone of the emperor's choosing - either the Duke of Temaria or within a family properly bred to take the reins should he prove unsuitable."

"I'm to find LaValette and tell him all this?" Eskel clarified.

"Just so." Though Vattier's dark eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile was absent from their depths.

"Do you know where either of them is? I've drawn a blank so far on finding Anais," said the witcher, "it would help if you could point me toward Aryan at least."

"Netalis hid the little girl away after Loc Muine," de Rideaux disclosed with a clearing of his throat. "The Constable disappeared after the battle in Angren and, despite a thorough search of his estates and careful questioning of his wife, we have been unable to discover her whereabouts." The spy drew a document from a drawer in the escritoire, passing it to the witcher. "The baron, however, can be found in Tretagor where he is currently fomenting a civil war. Our agent hasn't been able to get close to him, however, which is why we are hiring you."

"Let's discuss my pay." Eskel leaned forward, his face impassive. "I'm not cheap, but I can be had."

They negotiated, discussing the merits of per diem with a bonus over a flat rate paid half upfront before finally settling on mutually agreeable terms. The Viscount himself escorted the dark Wolf to the armory where his swords, armor and other belongings were returned, then turned the witcher toward the stables to discover Scorpion had been installed between two sassy mares. The stallion looked content though he tossed his regal head and nibbled in Eskel's palm with his velvety lips, seeking the sugarcube proffered to him.

"Hey, boy. They been treating you well?" murmured the scarred Wolf. "Don't let all that royal hay fatten you up too much. We've got work." Eskel clasped hands one last time with Viscount de Rideaux before he set out in the bright glare of day. It was time to see if John Netalis had left enough clues to reveal where Anais was hidden. He had an Imperial writ secured in his satchel that gave him leave to investigate anywhere within Nilfgaard's jurisdiction unmolested as well as a generous expense account for his needs whilst on the road. At least he could afford a better class of hay loft now. Scorpion kicked up chunks of compacted snow along the road as Eskel turned his mount south, fingering the key tucked in a hidden pocket in his gambeson.

* * *

Darkness was not a transient absence of light in this blackened world. It was the living embodiment of hopelessness, the tangible evidence of a living death. Gracen De Long, the youngest son of Ranrik and Viola De Long, of the Roggeven De Longs, leaned his young head against the cold, mortared blocks of his cell and shivered.

"I'm cold, Gracen," complained the small voice of his companion.

"Me too, Pipsqueak. Cuddle up, we'll keep each other warm." The boy's voice was disheartened and rough from disuse.

"Keep me safe from the rats?" Pip begged.

"I won't let them eat you, Pip," Gracen assured, sighing. He barely even noticed the rodents anymore, or the aroma of dank mold and piss that had once assaulted his nose mercilessly.

Both children were covered in their own filth. Gracen's once lively blond curls lay matted against his skull in a stinking mass. Even Pipsqueak's short hair was begrimed in muck.

"I wish they would give us a torch when they aren't here," cried the younger child, a bare five summers old. "I'm 'fraid of the dark."

"Me too," sighed the older boy. A tear stole down his cheek, chiseling an unheeded track through the dirt. At twelve he was not too old to cry, and he often did when fear of the dark gave way to more immediate concerns such as gnawing hunger and constant pain. He draped a manacled arm around Pip, wincing as rough metal shifted against his mangled wrist.

"When will they come for us? How long ago did they take Olan and Elgar?" Tears choked Pip's voice as the child began to weep again. At the start of the nightmare, other children had shared their prison but, two by two, they had been taken away and thrown into the Labyrinth where they were fed to the monster. A distant, wall shaking roar followed by desperate, gurgling screams were all the epitaph any of them received.

"I don't know." The boy blinked back more moisture as he thought. "I don't remember anymore. A few sleeps ago." Gracen knew their chances of leaving Tretogor's prison alive were as slim as winter grass. In maybe ten more sleeps, he and Pip would have their turn with the monster and this nightmare would finally end. Heavy metal doors clanged nearby, rousing the children from their shivering reverie. Gracen's belly grumbled and saliva glands under his tongue bunched painfully as the smell of food wafted through the cell door. Soon, he and the pipsqueak would be thrown into the Labyrinth, but thinking about it would spoil his appetite.


	14. The Balance of Power

**Yes, this departs from game canon and will assume parts of the quest "Reason of State" happened quite differently.**

* * *

"Triss, pay attention," sniped the ebon-haired sorceress to the chestnut haired one as they sat at war council with Phillipa, Fringilla, Margarite and the Aen Saevherne. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately, but put it off and attend. This is all for Ciri, you know."

"I know, I'm sorry. What were you saying, Philippa?" Triss wound a lock of hair around her finger.

"What would Triss Merigold be thinking of, or perhaps I should say whom?" Philippa Eilhart's tone was arch as she tilted her sightless eye sockets toward the sound of Triss's voice before turning an artlessly nasty smile toward Yennefer. "Still pining after Geralt? I would have thought you possessed more self-respect than that. Tell me, darling, did you get a new style and color to impress him?"

"I'm not pining for anyone, Philippa. Certainly not Geralt," scoffed Triss. "I'm quite happy he and Yennefer have finally come to a deeper understanding and wish them much joy of each other. And before any of you intends to quiz or berate me further on the subject, I'm over it. Quite simply done." Triss stared directly at Eilhart, hands curling into fists in her lap, not seeing the flash of jealous disbelief in Yennefer's eyes.

Margarita Laux-Antille, still bearing the marks of her recent imprisonment, cleared her throat pointedly as she spoke in a weakened voice, "Let us put such squabbles behind us, ladies. We must come up with an effective strategy if the Wild Hunt is to be bested." Avallac'h only nodded his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. These witches would be the death of him. Sighing, he looked at each woman around the table, his voice low but urgent.

"Eredin's greatest advantages are summoning reinforcements immediately through portals, and teleporting the Naglfar away if things go poorly in battle." Looking up, the sage was pleased to see they had abandoned their petty squabble for the moment. "We've already settled on the Marlin Coast as our battleground, given how remote it is. I have a plan to ensure Eredin receives no help from Tir Na Lia, but you, ladies, must devise a stratagem to prevent the Hunt's retreat."

"We could create suppression field. It wouldn't be fine tuned enough to stop smaller portals, but it would block anything large enough to transport his ship," suggested Marguerite.

"A bubble that large would require all of us casting in unison," complained Philippa, "we wouldn't be able to help the combatants with supporting spells."

"What good would our magic be if the Naglfar can simply teleport away, and then return while we are still licking our wounds?" Marguerite asked, looking around at her lodge sisters. "I cast my vote for the suppression field."

"We haven't yet called for a vote," sneered Philippa, drumming her fingers on her knee.

"What do you suggest, then, Philippa?" Yennefer managed to pack a wealth of angry snark into her mild words and milder tone.

The blind sorceress leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers under her chin. "I support the suppression field, frankly." Groans fluttered from three feminine throats as Avallac'h pinched the bridge of his nose again.

"Then put it to a vote. Not that we have any better suggestions," muttered Triss.

"All in favor of generating a suppression field to prevent the Naglfar from teleporting away, raise your right hand." Four delicate hands immediately shot into the air. "Opposed? No one? Alright, that's settled. Now, Avallac'h, what is your plan to strip reinforcements from the King of the Hunt?" Philippa's voice had turned silky.

"I prefer not to say at the moment. I need to make contact with an old friend first," said the Aen Saevherne cryptically. "It's not up for a vote in any event." Avallac'h leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. A migraine was ticking behind his right eye and he wanted to retreat to his room, away from these contentious women. "I do ask, however, if any of you knows a good oneiromancer."

"There is one," Triss said, "Corrine Tilly. She chose to stay in Novigrad when we got all the other magic users, healers and alchemists out. I believe she helped Geralt locate Dandelion when we were looking for Ciri."

The sage rocked to his feet and strode toward the door, tossing instructions over his shoulder as he reached for the doorknob, "I must speak with her. If you would, please, Miss Merigold, get a message to her for me. I wish to speak to Geralt as well." Triss nodded to his retreating form, the quiet click of the latch sounding loud in Philippa's room.

"Well, I believe we've made progress. We have work ahead of us sisters," Philippa, despite the loss of her eyes at Radovid's hands the year before and half a year spent trapped in her owl form, was still self-assured and forceful. "Marguerite, Yennefer and I will begin work on the spell's construction as you go on Avallac'h's errand, Triss." Philippa paused and tapped her lips. "It is time, as well, to bring Cirilla into the lodge. We've put this off long enough." The blind witch's mouth compressed into a grimace as Yennefer shifted in her seat. "I trust you to bring her around to good sense, Yennefer. Her power is too great, her behavior too erratic to allow her to go her own way any longer. For the good of the lodge and the world, she needs our discipline."

"I'll talk to her, Philippa, but ultimately, it's her decision. I cannot coerce her." Sounds of clinking mugs and the muted mumble of conversation floated up from the common room in the leaden silence following Yennefer's statement.

"As soon as she and Geralt have returned from wherever it was they went, bring her to us," Philippa declared. "In the interests of the lodge and for the sake of impartiality, you and Triss will be excluded from the meeting."

"Wait," Triss interjected with some heat, "Yen and I are part of the lodge too. There's nothing you can say to Ciri that can't be said in front of us."

"As Philippa said, you are both too close to her and your judgments skewed," Marguerite spoke even as she stood.

"We simply wish to reinstate our offer to join the lodge. Though her power is dangerous left untrained, we shall not coerce her. It's clear she has very much become her own woman since last we saw her in Montecalvo." The sisters of the lodge moved to disperse and Yennefer hooked her arm through Triss's as they left the room.

"So, my dear Triss, that's your natural color, isn't it? It suits you well. What made you decide to change your hair?" Yennefer's question was couched in a pleasant tone, but Triss could hear steel springs winding within it. She ran a hand through straight chestnut locks highlighted with lighter golden strands that just brushed her shoulders now, framing her face charmingly.

"It was time for a change," she shrugged nonchalantly. "My new career awaits in Lan Exeter once we've defeated the Hunt, why not update my look?" The women turned into Triss's small room and closed the door.

"You don't have a chance with him, you know," Yennefer hissed, helping herself to a glass of wine from the fresh carafe on the bedside table.

"Would you have me shave my head and wear rags? Perhaps score my face and knock out some teeth? Really, Yennefer, enough is enough," the younger sorceress shot back, accepting her own glass from Yennefer's hand.

Yennefer's eyes narrowed. "We've had this conversation before. Just keep your hands off. He's mine."

"I don't want him," Triss grinned, realizing for the first time it was really true. "He's all yours."

Yennefer scowled. "Hmmph. How am I to believe you when you've been after him these last ten years and more? You've seduced him, slept with him every chance you got!"

Mettina Rosé swirled in Triss's cup as she considered her answer. "Call it an epiphany. I've come to the conclusion that trying to take him away from you to prove I could is sophomoric and utterly pathetic, not to mention futile." She leaned on the windowsill, watching the busy day go by outside as hawkers called their wares and prostitutes sashayed, displaying theirs. "Even when he couldn't recall anything after riding with the Hunt, on some level he remembered you. I was just a poor substitute, there to provide comfort until he reunited with his soul's match. He could get that with any dockside prostitute, and often has." The rosé swirled again, playing with sunbeams from the window as it released its heady bouquet. Merigold shrugged one shoulder eloquently as she sipped her wine. "Quite frankly, I'm done selling myself short. I deserve better than that. I would rather be alone than a shabby stand in for you."

Mumbles of noise from outside floated in the stillness between the women as Yennefer mulled what Triss said. Several times she opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort before snapping her lips shut. Finally, in a small voice, she murmured, "Do you really mean that, Triss? You won't attempt to seduce him anymore? You won't act the siren?"

"I'm done playing stupid games," Triss said acerbically. "I regret ever starting them in the first place."

Yennefer finished her wine, studying the cup for a moment before setting it back on the serving tray. "I don't know if I can trust you, not sure I can believe you. There's a lot of water under this bridge."

"I would prefer you had some faith in me, Yen, but at the end of the day, your approval isn't required," Triss sighed. "I've done everything I can to make up for my wrongs. I won't spend my life showing you proof. If you aren't willing to forgive, no amount of atonement will suffice."

Yennefer stood, her back to the window as she rubbed at an imaginary spot on her left hand, sending her final salvo across Triss's bow, "I'll believe it when I see it. Eventually, you'll break your word." The proud woman, cloaked in her unchanging signature black and white, strode from the room, allowing the door to slam in her wake. Triss leaned against the window pane, staring sightlessly into the city milieu.

"Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar," she murmured, fingering the small medallion at her wrist and wondering where Eskel was, hoping he was safe and his hunt successful. She had exercised supreme self-control, scrying him only once in the last week, taking note of his posh surroundings and the svelte texture of a Nilfgaardian doublet hugging his slim frame. Somehow, he had ended up in Vizima palace. She recognized the stonework mosaic on the lintel of the door.

Shaking her head, the sorceress stripped out of her usual garb, donning the clothing of a peasant; a woolen dress, sturdy clogs, linen mob-cap and thick knitted shawl completed her ensemble. No one would expect the illustrious Triss Merigold to be seen dead on the city streets in such common garb. She pulled the cap low over her face and draped the shawl over her head as well. Triss hoped Corrine Tilly would agree to meet with the elven sage. Even in this get-up, she could be recognized and she didn't like risking her neck in vain. Sighing, she let herself out of her room and took the back stairs out into the cold October sunshine. She just missed the mounted contingent of armored Cavalry that paraded past the Chameleon, lofted pennants displaying the Redanian Eagle fluttering in the breeze.

* * *

The seething human tidewater of Novigrad swelled and surged in the wake of the mounted squad and no one noticed the man leaning against the mud and plaster side of a local tannery nearby, his arms crossed over his chest and one ankle crossed over the other. He watched with narrowed eyes the color of sunlight filtered through Kaedweni Stout as the squad of Redanian officers trotted down the street toward the temple district. The owner of the eyes, a tall, bald man in ragged clothing and a patched mishmash of leather armor, scratched his stubbled chin idly. Those eyes, seemingly disinterested, caught every detail - the exact number of knights, the state of their gear, the health of the horses. Each rider represented a company of a thousand men, the body of the Fifth Eagle Division, camped just outside the city gates in the small hamlet of Far Corners. Everyone knew the final clash between North and South would take place here. If they were lucky, Novigrad would still stand the day after the battle, regardless the victor, and the fighting would be limited outside Novigrad's fortified walls.

Francis Bedlam, King of Beggars, levered himself away from the building and ambled toward a certain bathhouse not far from the Passiflora, avoiding road apples as he strolled through various markets along the way. City dwellers huddled in sullen silence only moments before, were suddenly frantic to spend their coin and buy up every available scrap of wool, gutted fish, jug of beer and shriveled potato the merchants had to offer. Goods that were dwindling rapidly; the marketplace would be stripped bare before the thirteenth bell. The looming conflict weighed heavily on the morning breeze and accompanied Francis as he arrived at the bathhouse.

A rapid knock in a prearranged pattern summoned a servant to peek through the spyhole in the door before swinging it wide and bidding the beggar king to enter. "Ah, Master Bedlam," enthused Dijkstra's … Bedlam wasn't quite sure what Happen was to Reuven exactly, but the rotund eunuch was a ubiquitous feature at these meetings. "Do come in. You are expected. Follow me, please." Bedlam dipped into one of the changing rooms, emerging with a soft, Ofiri cotton bath sheet wrapped around his naked hips. He didn't like leaving his personal arsenal behind, but all the crime lords had agreed it was the best way to ensure a level meeting field. The air was warm and humid. Tendrils of steam curled around the architecture, painting the marble plinths and panels with drips of condensation as he padded toward the sounds of voices arguing amidst the tinkling of water.

"Free city. How are we a fuckin' free city when Radovid's army is shittin' piles in our yard? What maggot crawled into his head to bring his damn army here?" Carlo "Cleaver" Varese raged, pacing at the edge of the steaming pool of hot water. "If that cocksucker thinks he's gonna take Novigrad, I'll shove a fuckin' pike up his arse sideways."

The man known as Cyprian Wily the Younger grimaced and lounged back against a marble balustrade, his nasal whine echoing unpleasantly as he spoke. "The Center Army group is marching up from Vizima, ready to push over the Pontar. Tradesmen are packing up shop and leavin' on the tide with the fleet."

"An' why would that be, d'ye think?" snarled the dwarf, "Radovid's ships are just down the Pontar in Oxenfurt and Emhyr's sit idle in Bremervoord. Damn yacht race to see who would get here first. Winner blockades the harbor."

Junior nodded and scratched at the greasy strands of hair at the back of his head. "Novigrad runs on commerce and trade is it's life's blood. With Nilfgaard and Redania about to corner fuck us, the goods are drying up. Too little is coming in. If this fight doesn't happen soon, there won't be enough vittles to endure a siege." The weasely little man nodded to emphasize his point. Francis agreed with the slimy fourth string of Novigrad's Underground Quartet, scowling as he poured himself a goblet of wine and took his place by the steaming pool.

Dijkstra and Cleaver would never mention it, and neither would he, but Bedlam knew the real Cyprian Wiley's body had been dragged out of an Oxenfurt mansion and thrown into a knacker's cart, along with the prostitutes he had murdered. For a while, relations betwixt the underworld bosses and ambitious upstarts hoping to fill in the power vacuum were shaky, but this Whoreson miraculously appeared as if from the dead to take charge of his gang once again. Appearances notwithstanding, he was smarter than his predecessor, far more rational, and possessed an unparalleled head for business absent from the unlamented original. So what if the new Whoreson was a doppler? He was trustworthy, competent and discreet - all valuable commodities to Bedlam's way of thinking.

Francis stepped into the pool and took his place on the tiled edge, resting his feet on a submerged step as he rumbled his thoughts aloud. "No one thought the Emperor would attack Novigrad. There're too many reasons to leave us be, most notably access to lines of supply."

"Someone forgot to remind the emperor," scoffed Cleaver. "Fucker'll have to fight his way north. Radovid has his armies packed into the whole of Far Corners from the City walls to the southern Pontar delta."

"Doubt they'll come all the way into the city," sneered Junior, eyeing the refreshment table and weighing the advantages of helping himself to a mug of ale.

"Emhyr needs a decisive victory in Velen or things will go ass up for him in a damn hurry," Dijkstra grumbled as he limped through the doorway to join the other three bosses, pausing at the table laid with fine cheeses, breads, fruits, wines and seven varieties of beer. "At this point, he doesn't give a heavy shit if we burn the city to the ground so long as Radovid is defeated."

"You really think Nilfgaard will win, Reuven?" Cleaver settled down with a brimming mug of Mahakam's finest, planting his hoary backside against a marble pillar.

"It depends on the mettle of the King's troops, and if they are settled on their course," replied the big spy cryptically, palming a branch of grapes and pouring a chalice of est est before taking his seat on the lip of the hot tub. He sipped his wine, pinning each man and dwarf with a gimlet stare. "The question before us, gentlemen, is who do we WANT to win this war?"

Bedlam grimaced, "What does that even ploughin' mean, Sigi? What we want isn't going to change the the outcome."

"Don't be so sure about that, Francis," murmured the spy, "Kings and kingdoms fall and rise on much less."

"If it were up to me," said Whoreson, who had finally risen to graze at the refreshment table, "I'd choose the Empire. At least Emhyr doesn't get his fuckin' jollies lighting his courtyard with burning mages and non-humans."

"You ain't wrong, mate," growled Cleaver, "you ain't wrong. I'd take Nilfgaard any day over Radovid. At least the black'uns can be reasoned with and I have it on good authority the empire mostly leaves you alone so long as you follow the law and pay your taxes."

"No one escapes the tax man for long, north or south," grinned Whoreson impudently.

Dijkstra watched Bedlam's face as the beggar king mulled over his answer. Finally, Francis looked up, rubbing a thumb along his chin. "Radovid is brilliant but as unhinged as a brothel door. Belleteyne was the bloodiest display of his psychosis - so far. The way I see it, if he defeats Nilfgaard, the North will suffer under his rule and the witch hunters will drive their pogroms till even the Fire's Faithful roast on pyres." Francis paused and watch the flickering of a lamp as moisture gathered on the leaded glass bonnet. In a measured rumble, he concluded, "failure to act is to act. If we do nothing when we have the opportunity, we're as bad as he is; Worse because we might have stopped him when we had the chance."

Dijkstra nodded, absently rubbing his poorly healed leg as he stretched it in the hot water. "What if I told you gents we could help gut the little prick like a mackerel?"

"How the sandwich fuck are we supposed to do that?" sneered Wiley, a sour look crawling across his ferret-like face.

"When?" Cleaver grunted.

"Saovine," declared Sigi. "And we lead him into a trap." Steam rattled pipes under the floor, thumping like some buried giant in the absolute stillness between the four men. Finally, Carlos barked a sputtering laugh as Francis stood in disgust.

"Radovid is insane, not a ploughing idiot," spat the beggar king, his bare feet slapping the travertine tiles lining the bathhouse floor. "He lives on his flagship surrounded by the Royal Guard and a healthy contingent of witch hunters as well. Doubt even the King Slayer, were he alive, could dispatch him."

Dijkstra grinned, then growled, "We don't need Letho of Gulet to do our dirty work. Besides, I have another witcher in mind should we need one."

"Geralt of fucking Rivia," Whoreson spat as his narrowed eyes pierced the spy. Dijkstra nodded.

"So, how DO you plan on drawing out Radovid?" asked Cleaver. "He's not likely to just go out for a ploughin' picknick."

"He'll come to oversee the Battle of Novigrad himself," the words were delivered with deceptive indifference. "Redania will blockade the harbor to prevent Nilfgaard from landing troops inside Novigrad's walls. Radovid's flagship will stay at anchor, though well away from any maritime combat. That little cocksucker wants to be able to stride through the city when he wins, you know, put his own foot on his enemies necks. Our job is to see the citizenry rise up in riot and torch the harbor. Nilfgaard will prevent any Redanian ships from escaping."

Whoreson looked at the spy in utter disbelief. "Have you gone ploughin' crackers? Bugger me sideways! That's a lot of money to burn, Reuven."

"Settle down, Junior. We might loose all the warehouses, but what's in them will be moved into the catacombs and the remainder of the merchant fleet shooed off before the blockade begins," the spy shrugged. "Rebuilding has its advantages, you know." Whoreson nodded his head, calculating the costs, weighing the benefits.

Bedlam thought furiously, his agile mind flitting from possibility to possibility. Yes, this could work. Nodding, he intoned, "So, we help Radovid to abandon ship and funnel him … where?"

"Toward Temple Island," growled Cleaver, warming to the idea. "The bridge makes a reet handy box canyon when the gate's closed." The dwarf's grin was ugly.

Junior's sneer was uglier. "If he isn't skewered in the fighting on the way, we make sure the portcullis to the Temple is shut tight."

"I volunteer to bury me axe in that twat waffle's back," laughed the surly dwarf, slamming his empty tankard to the floor.

"Our job is just to get him there," Dijkstra growled, "someone else will strike the blow. We just need to keep him out of Nilfgaardian hands. They'll want to take him prisoner, make a spectacle of him, and I'd rather he not die a martyr."

"While I don't much fancy life under Nilfgaard's policies for Redania," muttered Cleaver, scratching his bearded chin, "I fancy Radovid less. Who's going to run the country for them? Might not be a bad idea to start courtin' 'im now."

"I have a fair idea who'll be handed a Duchy, in Redania and in Temeria," the spy muttered, ducking his head.

"Ye've been makin' deals, 'aven't ye, Sigi?" accused the dwarf, his face twisting in an ugly expression.

"So what if I have?" the spy rumbled. "I fookin' ran Redania for years after Vizimir stuck his fork in the wall, and before that, I worked side by side with the king to modernize us. I know Redania and Novigrad. Would you rather some blooded noble who only cares for their own skin, Carlos? Someone who didn't have the welfare of this city and the nation at heart? Someone who, perhaps, doesn't understand the value of a free market and modern industry?"

The King of Beggars crossed his arms over his chest as he scowled. "Where does that leave us, Sigi?" he gestured at the dwarf and Junior.

"Splitting Novigrad three ways, to my way of thinking," rumbled the spy. "The city is going to need strong leadership once the Church falls out of favor."

"Bloody fuckin' church, burning anyone they dislike," grumbled Cleaver. "They're a bigger threat than Radovid or Nilfgaard."

"You ain't wrong there, mate," agreed Whoreson, perching on a bench to munch cheese and grapes.

Dijkstra nodded. "Hemmelfart won't live forever. I've heard his health is failing rapidly and he spends more time sleeping than anything," he said. "The Council of Electors is warming up their conclave chambers."

"So now, in addition to killing kings, we're directing religions?" Bedlam scorned.

"What if our predecessors had taken a greater interest when Hemmelfart was confirmed?" Dijkstra's words were accompanied by a hiss of steam from a fixture. "Might we have ended up with a better hierarch than that fat, racist hypocrite? Keep in mind that Commandant of the Temple Guard - the defacto leader of the witch hunters - is an appointed position."

"Who's in the running?" asked Cleaver.

"There are several candidates, most are as bad or worse than Hemmelfart," murmured Bedlam, stroking his chin. "But there's one Archbishop. He's on the outs for ideological differences and currently living in exile somewhere in Velen."

"What did he do to get blackballed?" wondered Whoreson.

"My little birds tell me he posted ninety-nine theses on the Temple door, castigating the Church for its excesses and abuses," replied the beggar king with a grin.

"Sounds like our man. Is there enough support amongst the voting clergy to get him elected?" Dijkstra refilled tankards and goblets as he returned to the refreshments table.

Francis nodded. "There might be. There might be at that. If they knew how much support they had from each other, if they knew how many of the faithful were tired of the racism and hatred, how few there really are who support the current regime, they would consider him."

"As I see it," announced the spy, holding his goblet up in a toast, "We owe it to Novigrad, to Redania and the whole North to ensure this black sheep is installed when Hemmelfart sticks his fork in the wall."

"May it happen sooner rather than later!" agreed Cleaver, to which Bedlam and Junior also raised their cups.


	15. The Light of Hidden Things

Eskel regarded the stone and mortar fortress as he rode up a tree lined drive. By all accounts, Foltest had richly rewarded the Constable after the Battle of Brenna and enlarged the man's original estate for his service. Certainly this estate testified that the rumors were true. The Wolf slid out of the saddle, landing with a crunch in the compacted snow covering the drive slapping Scorpion's rains over a fence rail near steps leading up to the keep. Pounding on the front door, the witcher was rewarded quickly when it swung open on well-oiled hinges to reveal a liveried old footman who peered at the visitor out of rheumy eyes.

"Is Lady Natalis in?" Eskel's tone was polite as he dipped his head to the ancient retainer.

"Eh?"

"Is Lady Natalis in? May I speak to her please?" The witcher's raised voice summoned a bustling, heavy set woman who appeared beside the footman.

"Krum, ye deaf mule!" she screeched. "He said 'is Lady Natalis in'." The fat woman wiped her hands on her well-starched linen apron glaring suspiciously at Eskel.

"Lady Natalis? Nay, she ain't in. Gud travels te ye, sir." The witcher caught the door before it could close in his face.

"Maybe you could help me?" He looked appealingly at the woman, surmising she was the housekeeper. For good measure, he pulled out the writ given him by De Rideaux, noting how their faces paled at the sight of the emperor's seal. Her lips tightening, the housekeeper nodded and beckoned him to follow through the well swept and tidy foyer. She led him into a warm kitchen smelling of bubbling stew and fresh bread.

"I be Mrs. Krum and it's me job to care for the keep. I'd take ye to the solar, but the lady is not in residence an' it's cold in there now," she glared at the witcher, then continued defensively, "Till the lady returns, we're keeping the fires up in only a few rooms."

"Where is Lady Natalis?" he asked, easing his lean frame against a supporting beam adorned with dried garlic and herbs awaiting their turn to flavor a meal.

"Imperial soldiers came about a sennight ago an' took her away." Pots rattled as the housekeeper began straightening the neatly hanging cookware

"Do you know why? Was she arrested?" Eskel's eyes flitted around the room before pinning Mrs. Krum in his sharpened gaze. The woman stilled for a moment, staring at her toes.

"They came with word of the Constable" murmured the housekeeper. "Everyone thought he fell at the line last year and her ladyship has been mourning as a widow. It seems he's languished in a prisoner of war camp in Scala all this time, sick and out of his head." Clearing her throat, Mrs. Krum continued to bustle about the kitchen, not looking at the scarred witcher any more than she had to.

"I need to look around some," mutter Eskel, his low voice counterpointed by the clang of platters and cups Mrs. Krum rearranged on a low shelf. "Where would Lord Natalis keep his personal papers?"

"The empire has Lord John, what do they need with his papers?" Mrs. Krum's words wobbled rancorously, full of recrimination. "Not that ye witchers care about what the Empire has done to us, but ye - and they - can all go plough yerselves as far as I'm concerned."

Eskel ran a hand across the back of his head, grinding his teeth when he heard a telltale sniff. "I'm looking for the queen. Anais La Valette. If you know where John Natalis took her, tell me and I'll get out of your hair."

"Now what would ye be wanting her little ladyship for? So Emhyr can take Temeria by rights of marriage?" The woman ground her jaw mulishly and glared daggers at the witcher.

"Vernon Roche would safeguard her and you know he's a patriot." Eskel wasn't above insinuations, though in truth he hadn't decided what he would do once he found the girl. The dark Wolf began to bend his fingers, preparing to cast axii on the old woman if she continued her resistance. The housekeeper considered his words, her shoulders slumped in defeat before she nodded her acquiescence.

"Anything the Constable might have left would be in his study," she said, motioning him to follow her out of the kitchen and through a cold picture gallery. Generations of Natalis antecedents sat in silent judgment, looking down from their various portraits. Never having met the current lord nor his lady, Eskel wouldn't have been able to point out their pictures, but every man represented had the same dark, piercing eyes, and grim, determined expression. Mrs. Krum turned toward the witcher as she reached a door at the far end of the wide hall, pulling an iron ring of keys from beneath her apron.

"No one's been in here since the Nilfgaardians picked through it just after last Saovine. I did me best to clean up their mess, but they did a right dandy job of it." The housekeeper unlocked the door and let it creak open as she walked away. "I trust ye'll leave it in better condition than they did."

Eskel drew his cloak closer around his shoulders, the chill air seeping into his bones. His boots churned dust in his wake when he slowly stepped into the study, closing the oaken door behind him. Wooden planks squeaked under the witcher's feet as he moved around the frigid chamber, inspecting bookcases and paintings for telltale signs of a hidden cache. Even a cursory examination proved Mrs. Krum's tale to be true. Scratches in the floorboards bore witness to furniture being roughly shoved around, and the books on the shelves were not in any kind of order, as if they had been shoved into place haphazardly.

"Safe's gotta be around here somewhere," he mumbled as he fingered the key Roche had given him. He approached the formidable oak desk set at an odd angle in the far corner and drew his finger through the grime accumulated on the surface. "Now, if I were a secret cache, where would I hide?" The scarred Wolf sat in a leather chair worn smooth where buttocks and arms had been made comfortable in its tooled leather embrace, pulling himself up to the massive desk. Drawers slid open to the witcher's seeking fingers, but he found nothing out of the ordinary on the first inspection. He sat back and glared at the offending piece of furniture feeling something was slightly off about the proportions of the heavy woodwork. He removed the glove from his right hand and trailed naked fingertips along the grain of the wood. He knelt and peered under the desk and rapped his knuckles down the cabinetry. Rising, he walked all the way around the sturdy piece, running his fingers under the lip of the flat-topped writing surface, stopping back at the chair. Was that? Yes! It was! A keyhole under the lip, on the right corner barely registered against his skin. Unless someone was looking carefully for just such an indentation, they would miss it entirely. Crouching, the witcher fitted Roche's key by touch into the keyhole, grinning when the definitive click of a latch snickered in the cold silence.

The top of the desk slid away to reveal orderly bundles of papers, money, an account ledger and three daggers. Tucked under military documents and royal correspondence the witcher discovered a worn journal. Natalis had chronicled everything for the last ten years, from the Slaughter of Cintra in 1263 through the peace accords in Loc Muinne last year. Eskel's brow knit, remembering the sequence of events. Geralt and Roche had worked together to rescue Anais from Dethmold, the perverted and power hungry mage who had kidnapped her, and handed her into John Netalis' care at Loc Muinne, where the Temerian Lords had voted to make him Regent. The witcher settled back to read, searching for clues that would send him on his way.

* * *

 _September 17th, 1271_

 _We tried. Never let it be said we didn't. After Nilfgaard's duplicity and the massacre at Loc Muinne, Temeria MUST fight for her freedom! Vernon Roche and I leave soon to negotiate with Radovid V for aid to repel the invaders. I've sent missives to Kovir, but have yet to hear back from them. Aedirn is as good as conquered. If Temeria falls, Kaedwen is next, and then Redania. Henslet was a conscienceless fool and his duplicity brought us to this pass. The battle lines are drawn and the hills and vales between Mount Carbon and Dol Blathana will be our theater._

 _At least the Barons rallied around little Anais, raising the banner of Temeria's queen, and they ratified me as Interex. There is that. I am grateful for their support and faith, but banners and rallies are scant protection against the Black Ones should we fail to hold back the empire. Loc Muinne demonstrated we will have no peace with the south. Once again, we arm for war. Gods, did we ever lay down our arms? If Redania and Kaedwen will unite with Temeria, if we can count on the people of Aedirn, if Thyssen will release coin and mercenaries, we can trounce Nilfgaard as we did at Brenna, send them packing._

 _But Kaedwen is in disarray without that bloody bastard, Henslet and Aedirn are rudderless without Demavend and Radovid V sits on the throne rather than his esteemed father, Vizimir. Tancred Thyssen holds tight to his neutrality, tighter even than his father held to his. I fear the North is well and truly fucked and my beloved Temeria will stand alone._

 _I have decided to send the Queen into hiding for her own safety. At least till after the dust settles and we see if the Empire can be sent away with its tail between its legs once again. It's best no one else knows where I take her or how she'll be concealed. No one can be trusted, not even my own wife._

 _September 30th_

 _As expected, Kovir is keeping to itself. We'll have not so much as a wooden spoon from them to meet Nilfgaard with. Kaedweni and Aedernian nobles can't pull their heads far enough out of their asses to stop bickering about succession to their respective thrones to unite against the monster at the gates. Radovid is worse than useless and I suspect him of some game of his own. He can NOT be trusted. We'll receive no reinforcements from Redania and I seriously doubt our ability to repel the south without them._

 _I've taken the little Queen to my old friend Audley De Long, though he doesn't know who she really is. Her identity is concealed and she is safe even from Radovid's schemes so long as Audley keeps his wits about him. I would liefer her fall into the king's hands than Emperor Emhyr's in any event. Regardless, should we fail in Lyria, she is safer where she is than sitting in Vizima palace. I've decided to trust Vernon Roche and will give him a copy of the key to my desk where this journal will sit until he comes for it. He'll know when it's safe to bring her out of hiding when to reveal her as Temeria's monarch should I fall in the melee. Gods preserve me, but I have a bad feeling about this._

* * *

Eskel rubbed a thumb along the old wounds in his cheek. "Audley De Long," he grumbled, the vague memory of summer fields and well-kept hamlets flitted through his mind. "Knew of some De Longs just across the Pontar. Been a long time since I've been through Rinbe, though." The trip would take at least three days if the weather held. The Wolf stood, tucking the journal into his satchel before glancing through the other papers in the secret compartment. Determining there was nothing of interest to him amongst them, he slid the top of the desk back in place and locked it. Except for the disturbed dust, no one would know he had been here.

After speaking with the housekeeper and ensuring she would thoroughly clean the study, the witcher left the keep, stepping into the bright sunshine making progress against mounds of snow. For a moment as he stood in the fresh air, Eskel thought he heard a crash and bang from the right of the courtyard. Hand creeping toward his blades, he moved stealthily forward. Just as he reached the doorway of a gardening shed, a self-satisfied tabby strolled out of the little structure. The animal didn't even bother to hiss at him, just ambled off to find a patch of sunlight and curl up. The witcher shook his head and strode back to his horse, taking up the reins as he mounted and rode away. He didn't see the face of a man peering out of the shed, marking his progress toward the outer bailey with glittering of golden, cat-like eyes so similar to his own. As Eskel trotted Scorpion through the portcullis and down the road, the owner of the face came fully out of the shed, shrugged a thick, dark cape over his witch hunter leathers, and made his way back to his own mount, staked some distance from the castle in a concealing copse of trees. Ensuring to stay well behind the witcher, the man followed Scorpions tracks till the castle was left far behind.

* * *

Graden opened his eyes and stared at the rough timbers packed with straw and pitch that drew the boundaries of the little room in which he lay. Lifting a hand to his face, he discovered it took more effort than it should have. When he tried to lever himself onto an elbow, the effort left him weak and panting before he relented and flopped back on the straw tick mattress. A ruffle at the blanket covering the doorway drew his attention and we watched Tamara enter the little chamber with a steaming bowl in her hands. She sat down next to him on the bed and beamed a smile.

"You're awake, finally!" She put the bowl on a little table and helped him sit up as she arranged pillows behind him.

"Simeon thought you would regain consciousness today, though I had my doubts."

Graden's brow furrowed as she arranged a napkin at his throat and took the bowl back in her hand, prepared to spoon feed him the delicious smelling broth. He couldn't deny his mouth watered at the aroma, but he wanted answers more than food right now. "Where are we and how did we get here?"

"What do you remember?" She dipped the spoon, swirling it in the liquid as his mouth tightened. "We can talk while you eat. You needn't stare daggers at me, Graden. You've been out of your head with fever for days." He nodded as she brought the spoon to his lips.

"The last thing I remember was stumbling through the field after that thing attacked us," he muttered. "Everything after that is a blur." She nodded, patting at a drop of broth dribbled on his chin.

"We caught Clyde and found a nearby settlement, trading him and much of our remaining gear for horses. We rode all that day and made it here before you fell out of the saddle with a raging fever. That bite festered quickly." Tamara bit her lip and Graden noticed a crystalline tear trembling on her lashes. "I thought you were going to die."

"Where is here?" Graden asked balling his hand into a fist to keep from brushing the tear away, though he wasn't sure he could raise his hand so far.

"Just outside of Benek," said the girl, feeding him another spoonful of broth. "The local priest took us in and we've been taking turns nursing you ever since."

The witch hunter savored the soup as he considered their ill-conceived mission, tipping his head back to bark a hoarse laugh. "Why I allowed myself to be talked into traipsing around Velen instead of just going straight away to Vizima, I'll never fathom," He spit on a derisive snort. "We could have had Lady Netalis well in hand and back at the temple by now if we'd just used some sense."

Tamara's dark hair caught a beam of light from the window as she shook her head in disagreement. "It wouldn't matter when we got there or by what means, Graden. Lady Netalis hasn't been in residence since the beginning of the month. At least that's what Simeon told me."

"Who's this Simeon?" the older witch hunter grumbled, finishing the last spoonful of broth and allowing Tamara to wipe his hands and face with a wet rag.

"Simeon Gregory." Her attention was riveted to the rag in her hands as she let Graden digest that.

"Ninety-nine theses Simeon?" Graden looked at the girl in disbelief.

"Yes. Is that so fantastical?" sniggered Tamara. "After he nailed that scroll to the temple doors, he fled. What better place to get lost than the wilds of Velen?"

"Flame knows we did," groused the ill man, dragging his hand over his face.

"So, what now?" Tamara queried. "Do we continue our pursuit of Lady Netalis?"

"You won't be going anywhere till Graden here is healed," observed the lean man who ducked through the door just then. "And frankly, I would say let Lady Netalis be. Better to let Queen Anais stay hidden as well."

"Why do you say that?" Graden huffed as Tamara tucked the blanket around him.

"The Church wants to use her to start another war. This one is on it's way out, you see," chuckled their host.

"That's a terrible thing to say, Simeon!" exclaimed Tamara.

"The Church hates war just as much as anyone else!"

Simeon Gregory shook his head mournfully and scrubbed a hand over his tonsured pate as he settled on a little stool at the foot of the bed. "No, child. The common layperson hates war, the common priest, and even the common witch hunter," he bowed his head toward his guests, "hate war. To the Hierarch, war is a tool for spreading his brand of the Eternal Fire. Frightened, hungry, war-torn people are less likely to question the more severe abuses perpetrated against them."

"Abuses?" squeaked the girl. "We simply wish to rid ourselves of the filth of non-humans and those who practice foul sorcery!"

"Spoken like a true believer," Simeon sighed. "Why do you think the Church has preached for this, pushed pogroms, murdered people and taken their property?" Tamara opened her mouth to deliver an angry retort, but Graden spoke softly before she could voice her ire.

"We did it because of the money," he shivered at the words, feeling his own weakness. "We did it for the power and to prove we could. Mages, herbalists, alchemists and non-humans made easy scapegoats to hide our own deeds behind."

The priest's face lit with a wide grin. "Now here's a man who has understanding!" Turning to the girl, he held his hands out in supplication. "If something is really good and really true, then it's good and true for everyone, no matter who they are or who their parents were. It shouldn't matter if they are human or not." Tamara nodded in agreement, eying Simeon suspiciously. The lean man continued, "If something is said to be true and good and is demonstrably neither true nor good for all, then it is a piece of propaganda and has no place in our hearts."

"Are you saying the Church's stance against non-humans is propaganda?" Tamara frowned.

"I am. I also contend that the position against magic users is based on fear and jealousy." The priest cupped his chin in his hand, considering his words carefully. "We have painted with a very broad brush, ignoring the good done by practitioners of the arcane, and we have become fear mongers. There is no truth in what we have propagated, and a great deal of harm." Simeon sighed, bowing his head. "There's a better way forward, but it isn't the easy path."

Graden scowled. "That's sacrilege."

"Only if you consider Hemmelfart's word equivalent to the Divine," Simeon cocked an eyebrow at the witch hunter. "Where do you suppose his authority comes from? Maybe we've done no better than the Nilfgaardians, raising up a man to be worshiped. And if that's the pinnacle of our religion, then we are pitiful indeed."

"No wonder you ran from the Church. We'd have you on a pike for your heresies," Tamara smirked.

"Indeed," murmured the priest. "You know, I spent years buried in the Temple's archives and I learned some very poignant truths in the earliest records of our order. The Church was going to have them burned; Hierarch Hemmelfart prefers an evolving doctrine, you see, and history often becomes problematic to men such as he."

Graden's gaze narrowed as he pierced Simeon with a considering look. "You didn't happen to salvage those records, did you?" Tamara could have sworn she heard a faint note of angry desperation in his words.

"I did, yes," Simeon grinned and stood to his full height, his head almost skimming the low ceiling. "I'll bring you what I've translated so far. I think you will find it enlightening."

* * *

Whetstones grinding against steel shrieked through the tight quarters of the caverns, counterpointed by good-natured ribbing between mates. Hatchet Molly scolded someone about setting foot in her sacred kitchen and the Blue Stripe Captain could hear Ves drilling the newer recruits on proper crossbow techniques. Vernon Roche was surrounded by brothers and sisters in arms; his ragtag guerrilla army who followed him loyally, though he often felt he wasn't worth their fealty. Once tactics and strategies were hammered into shape they would move out in guerrilla commando units to converge on the war's closing battle but for now, they hunkered down and waited. He breached the perimeter, nodding to the sentry on duty as he grasped the reins of his horse. Novigrad was a hard ride and he'd be on the road half the night. The first stars twinkled between the bare branches of the oak forest as Roche stood impatiently awaiting his companion.

"Fuckin' dandy night for a ride if my cocksuckin' horse don't break her leg on the ice," grumbled the grizzled old man who slipped out of the shadows leading a dun mare. Roche scoffed and mounted his dappled courser, leaning forward to smooth a hand over the stallion's sleek neck. Bernard Dukat, the former head of Temerian Intelligence, wasn't done grousing, however. "Colder than a cocksuckin' grave hag's tit."

"Thaler, only you could come up with such a comparison," Roche laughed, breathing in the stinging, cold air and puffing it out in white breaths. It felt good to be out of that damn cave, holding discipline together amongst people who were rapidly losing hope. "I don't like this deal. It's a semblance of freedom but at what point do we feel the overlord's leash on our throat?"

"I know it's a damned lot of semantics, but it ploughin' makes sense," the spy interjected. "If we keep fighting, we might as well just put the godsdamned sword to our own fuckin' necks." The grizzled man spat a gob of phlegm, cutting a scheming glance at Roche. "This way, mate, Temeria has a ploughin' chance at independence. We can rebuild. I know Lyria and Aedirn are a heavy loss, I fucking know it better than most. But the alternative is Temeria in chains just like they are."

"I know it, but I don't have to like it," grumbled the Blue Stripes Captain as he leaned over his mount's neck, urging the animal into a gentle lope. "What about Redania?"

"What about it? That cocksucker, Radovid'll attend the dance in Novigrad and we'll make sure the bastard gets his balls spit on a pikestaff." They had reached the main highway and gave the horses their heads, saving their breath for a break in their pace. Roche was as weary of this war as anyone, but he still harbored doubts about the deal he was accepting on Temeria's behalf. There were too many opportunities for betrayal and too much at stake to leave any of it to chance.

Four hours of hard riding on ice and snow brought the Vegelbud estate looming, a great, hulking shadow, to their right. They eased the horses into a gentle canter, allowing the animals to rest before they pushed on to Novigrad. Roche gazed into the semi-darkness, their path lit by a gibbous moon. Saovine would see it full and illuminating the darkened crannies of the North.

"Temeria," he murmured, longing reaching deep into his breast as he thought of his country. "From the Yaruga to the Pontar, from the sea to Mount Carbon." Roche sat relaxed in the saddle, yet felt the weight of responsibility dragging across his shoulders. Shaking himself he straightened up and laughed into the night. "I never set out to gain a title, you know."

"I know it, mate, I know it," Thaler's answering grin was evident in his voice. "And that's exactly what makes you the man for the job. Just don't fuck up and forget us little people when you plant your arse on Vizima's throne."

Roche and his horse snorted almost in unison, summoning a wry chuckle from the old spy. "You really think Ves will let that happen?"

"Mate, if you're wise, she won't," sighed Thaler, then turning, he regarded his companion under hooded lids. "You'll need to marry and set up your nursery soon else the Emperor will be dictating your fuckin' bride." Roche nodded silent agreement, thinking of the blond woman who had become his most trusted confidant, his most valuable soldier.

"I'm too old for her. She needs a younger man," Vernon growled.

"And you ploughin' think they'll give you some used up old biddy as a wife? You're a great fuckin' idiot," Thaler scoffed harshly, his lips twisting in a sneer made grotesque by moonlit shadows. "You should marry her before November gets old enough to bring out the Yule decorations."

"She wouldn't have me," asserted the Blue Stripe leader bitterly, wishing it weren't true. His relationship with Ves had been strained ever since they returned from Kaer Morhen at the beginning of September. His thoughts drifted back to one night atop a merlon on the walls of the witcher keep when he had kissed her; just a gentle grazing of the lips and an unspoken promise of more. He could have made her his, then. Could have even made it official with the druid Ermion in residence, but the future was still too uncertain and he had a duty to discharge before he could please himself. After the battle with the hunt, reality had dragged Ves and Vernon out of the Blue Mountains and back to their partisan headquarters as they prepared for new skirmishes. He hadn't touched her since that night on Kaer Morhen's battlements and she wasn't happy with him. Savagely, he shook those thoughts from his head as he bent over his mount's neck, urging the animal into a ground-eating gallop. The sooner this war was over, the better things would be for everyone. Another two hours at a dead gallop would carry him and Thaler through the Portside gate and into a meeting with Dijkstra to solidify their strategy. Twelve days. October was waning and they didn't have much time to prepare for their special offensive. Roche shoved thoughts of Ves ruthlessly to the back of his mind. There would be time to consider where she fit in his life after the looming conflict once Radovid's blood stained the cobbles.


	16. What's Done In Love

Mary Louisa LaValette was still a beautiful woman despite bearing three children, the oldest of which was a strong, vital man in his own right. Her breath frosted the leaded glass of her bedchamber window as she stared into another cold night. Her lover shifted on the bed behind her and propped his hands behind his head.

"Come back to bed, elaine minne," he murmured, stretching amidst the silk sheets as he appreciated the curve of her breast, the plump mound of her buttocks outlined in chiaroscuro. Though his Nilfgaardian accent made the elder speech seem clipped, the language remained melodic, enticing.

"Have you any word of Aryan? You promised to tell me earlier." The Baroness hugged her arms around her middle, imprisoning shame and fear deep within. This was for her children; for Aryan and Anais. Her Boussy was lost. Tamping down ruthlessly on that thought the Baroness turned part way toward the bed as the waxing moon limned her face in cool light, catching the gloss of her lips in a trembling sparkle.

"The Baron continues to foment dissent in Tretogor, as agreed," sighed her companion. "From all accounts, he does a good job of it. The Emperor is pleased. Now, come back to bed. The room is cold, yes?" He didn't miss the shine of tears in her beautiful, dark eyes as she turned back to the window tracing swirls in the frosted panes. The man pushed to sit at the edge of the bed, appreciating the Baroness' shapely backside. Rising, he padded up behind her and enclosed her in his warm embrace, dipping his head to nibble the line of her neck from ear to shoulder. "What worries you, minne?" He turned her to face him, tracing her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. Their relationship was one of political expediency, but he would never let it be said he was cold to his lovers.

Mary Louisa gazed toward the window, a shuddering sigh rippling through her body. "I worry for my daughter. Is she safe? Is she well? I haven't seen her since Constable Netalis was set as regent …"

"And you miss her. Of course, what mother would not pine for her daughter?" A warm smile ghosted across the man's lips. "I can assure the empire also wishes to find her and keep her safe."

The Baroness pushed out of her lover's arms with a scoffing snort. "The empire wishes to secure its claim to Temeria by marrying her to a patriotic Nilfgaardian noble house."

Nodding his head, the man agreed. "Of course, that is the way these things are done. But she would be safe in the south, and you would be able to join her, raise her according to the station that is her birthright." He didn't attempt to recapture her in his arms immediately, rather his hand stroked her dark hair, twining the curling strands about his fingers. He sighed and retrieved a softened bear skin from the bed, wrapping it about her shoulders as he moved to face her. "You cannot secure her safety with your worry, Mary Louisa," he murmured, once again circling her with his strong arms and pressing his forehead to hers. "Now, come to bed and I shall keep you warm, minne. And I give you my word your daughter shall be found and restored to you."

Her hands rested on the smooth wall of his muscular chest and she acquiesced, allowing him to press her down to the mattress. As he made love to her body, she reminded herself this was for her children.

* * *

She reminded herself this was for everyone she loved. She alone stood between the varied worlds within the great spiral and the advance of the White Frost, so she concentrated, struggling to bring her power under control.

"You must focus, Zirael, and let the power course through you as if you are the river bed. You do not start or stop the flow, but you direct it along its journey to accomplish the purpose you have for it." Avallac'h paced the spacious room as he lectured. "Do it again. A ball of pure force the size of an apple. Hold it for twenty heartbeats in your hand and then pull it back into the flow slowly."

The ashen haired woman took a deep breath, relaxing as she concentrated. A blue-white sphere grew from a speck in the palm of her right hand, pulsating with the beat of her heart. She counted the steady rhythm, struggling to keep her breathing metered, before allowing the magic to shrink back down to nothing. It was so much easier to thrust the power out of her like shrapnel from a grape shot bomb. These control exercises demanded her utmost concentration.

"I still don't understand why a contingent of regular magic users can't go to the source of the White Frost. What is so important within the elder blood?" She asked as she made the ball of energy again, held it just a little longer before allowing it to seep away.

"Practitioners of magic - ALL practitioners of magic - are capable, in differing capacities, to act as a conduit of the energy," the Aen Saevherne murmured, watching the pulsing light as Ciri called forth the power once again. "The elder blood, Lara Doren's gene, was chosen and carefully husbanded because those with it are able to control the power to a greater extent than even the most gifted mage without it." The sage nodded approval, indicating the girl change the rhythm of the exercise by holding the power longer and releasing it more slowly. "And the children of the elder blood are able to navigate time as well as space instinctively. You are the pinnacle of that husbandry, Zirael." Ciri's breathing was ragged, laboring to oxygenate her cells, her organs, as she increased the size of the plasma ball in her hand, made it shrink then grow in rhythm with her beating heart. Expanding on the lub, contracting on the dub, she increased the size of materialized power till her hands were held greater than shoulder width in front of her. A trickle of sweat traced her eye socket then joined the rivulet that cut a track down her cheek.

"That skirts my question and you know it." Her brow knit in concentration as she channeled the power like a river.

Avallac'h indicated yet another change in exercise and the plasma became a swirling whip that started at Ciri's eye level and ended at her feet, sparkling blue light flowing from origin to terminus. Avallac'h called this one "Oberon's Highway" because the adept channeled the current into being at the top and subsumed it away at the bottom. The elf sighed as he rested against the wall. He was still not recovered entirely from his attenuated Trial of The Grasses.

"The White Frost isn't a solitary event stuck in one place and one time, en'ce Zirael. It is a singularity that is like Oberon's Highway. Each point on the spiral is a time, a place, and the whole construct spans all of time and space." Avallac'h pinched the bridge of his nose with a weary hand. "Even I, with my gifting of Lara's blood, can only approach the Frost from one time, one place at a time. You, however, have the potential to approach every time and every place at once. And that is why it must be you, minne, who does this." Avallac'h didn't call her minne, "love", often. He must be tiring. Except for the twists of fate and the vagaries of love, she would have been the Aen Elle's great granddaughter. Even though his mating with Lara Doren had been arranged, he had loved the elven woman. Her defection with Creganan of Lod had broken his heart.

Ciri's dealings with Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha - Avallac'h - in Tir Na Lia had been formal yet filled with undercurrents of resentment on both their parts. Fleeing from the Aen Elle's world, the girl had excoriated his pride and inflamed old wounds. Enraged, The Fox rode with the Dearg Ruadhr, to recapture her, intent on dragging her back to his laboratory to extract what his people so desperately needed. But when he finally cornered her, exhausted and desperate in a dirty alleyway on a far-flung world, he relented. She wasn't a child born of his body or will, but she carried the essence of his beloved within her cells and Avallac'h couldn't bring himself to harm her. Thus he became her protector and mentor, hiding her from Eredin at the risk of his own life, a fugitive now in his own right.

Ciri subsumed Oberon's Highway back into the river at her mentor's signal and wiped her sopping brow. Grasping a crystal decanter of wine, she looked his way with a look of inquiry, pouring when he nodded. The beautifully aged vintage of Beauclair Red swayed in the deep bowls of two flutes as she passed one to him and inspected the twisted threads sparkling in the beaded stem of her own glass. She savored a sip as she mulled her thoughts, finally voicing them aloud. "The White Frost is like the force of magic then?"

"In a manner of speaking. The power, present in all of nature, is still bound by the rules of nature. The White Frost is that very power unbound from those laws. Like a flood that has escaped the river's bank, it damages everything it touches, eventually grinding it to dust." Avallac'h swirled his crystal cup, watching the wine catch sparkles from early morning light filtering through the window. "It is chaotic, entropic, destroying every world it touches. More than a simple planetary ice age, the frost destroys not only the worlds but their suns as well, sucking the life from those life-giving stars."

The girl's shoulders slumped in despair. "How are these exercises to help?"

"By mastering the flow of magic. You will do the same with the Frost - you channel the wild flux back into the river, where it shall be bound by the banks of nature's rules once again." Avallac'h finished his wine, setting the glass aside on the serving tray. "I must rest, Zireal. We will resume later this afternoon." Ciri moved to the door, turning back hesitantly as she stepped into the hall.

"What if I can't do it? What if I fail?"

"You will not fail, little swallow," the sage's voice was assured and his gaze did not waver from her. The witcher girl nodded convulsively and pulled the door shut behind her as she left. "You will not fail, Zireal, but you may not survive," Avallac'h concluded to the now empty room in barely a whisper. As he pulled the coverlet over himself and laid his head on a pillow he thought of the price she would pay. If she was unsuccessful in her attempts to channel the White Frost and nullify its rampage across creation, she would become the eternal conduit through which it was controlled and held at bay; conscious but forever trapped in an inescapable crucible. Either way, the White Frost would be halted. He closed his eyes, preparing for sleep and desperately hoped it wouldn't come to that. For all Ciri was a d'hoine, he was fond of the girl and Avallac'h found the thought of a world without her unbearable.

* * *

More and more, lately, the elderly woman found a life without her witcher unbearable. She stroked the fine leather and chain gambeson on the bed as fond memories cascaded through her mind. Midday light filtered through the gauzy curtains at the bank of windows, set especially to capture the southern sun in winter. Mignole left the armor behind and moved to gaze out on Oxenfurt's Guildenstern Bridge. There was a young couple strolling through Thinker's Park, hand in hand and heads close together. The Countess closed her eyes as visions of her first assignation with the Wolf flittered in her mind. Though he looked as distinguished as her father, he carried himself with the grace and aplomb of a much younger man. He had captured her imagination at seventeen along with her young heart and even now, nearly fifty years later, she did not, would not regret giving him her innocence. A slow, wicked smile stole across her lips as she remembered their first kiss. Vesemir had tried so hard to be honorable, but she wouldn't let him. Her father had eventually found them out and sold her to the first noble that would take tarnished goods to wife. She had been relegated to a cold, loveless marriage, guarded jealously by her fool of a husband until the day he died. Her witcher's passion continued to keep her warm through these long, lonely years.

"Where are you, my love? Has the Path been, if not kind, at least profitable? Do you still live?" Mignole laid a hand to the windowpane as the lovers moved out of her sight. The door rattled behind her, shattering the old woman out of her reverie.

"Lady Mignole," the little maid dipped a bobbing curtsey as she delivered her message, "Master Barsoldi awaits you in the front drawing room."

"Thank you, Luliette," the countess replied, hurrying after the girl, shutting her memories away behind her. She floated into the pretty blue and white drawing room at the front of her Oxenfurt townhouse, taking a deep breath. It was time to sell this heap and everything in it.

"My Lady, you are charming as ever," murmured Horst Barsoldi as he bowed over her outstretched hand, kissing air the requisite three inches from her skin. The Countess nodded, removing her hand from the man's grip, running her hands down the sides of her day gown and schooling her face into neutrality.

"Mr. Bersoldi. Have you the papers for my lawyers?" Her voice, like her face, was carefully crafted to give nothing away.

"I do, madam, though you could sign them immediately. Everything is above board and legal," the fat man sneered.

"I am sure it is, sir," Mignole simpered. It would not do to offend this self-important prig. She wanted a good price and his auction house offered the best services in Redania. The Countess sank onto a lovely Ofiri style chair festooned with a silk cushion. Sitting with her back ramrod straight as she indicated he take the matching settee across from her she murmured in a demure tone, "I prefer to do things according to protocol. I wish my house and its accouterments sold, assuredly, but I also wish to ensure my interests are upheld to the letter."

"Of course, my lady," Barsoldi purred as he dipped into his satchel and pulled out a sheaf of official looking documents. "The top set, here, is the agreement to let Barsoldi's manage the estate sale, our percentage from the auctions and our guarantee of your selling price are outlined here, and here." He pointed a pudgy finger at each item. "The rest are your manifests. List every item to be sold, including all properties, household goods, works of art and what have you."

"I will pass this to my lawyers and we'll have everything back to you by the end of business on Thursday. When might the auction be held?"

The fat man tilted his head to the right as he thought, sorting schedules in his head. "I would say by mid to late November at the latest, my lady. The Wednesday auction of November 23rd? Does that suit you?"

Mignole nodded decisively. "That suits me very well indeed, Mr. Barsoldi." She stood, forcing the fat man to scramble to his feet as well. The Countess glided to the bell pull and summoned her butler as she inclined her head. "Maximillian will show you out, sir. Thank you for meeting with me today."

As regal as a queen, Mignole took her leave of the fat man, sailing up the grand staircase to the refuge of her room. Laying down on the double wedding ring quilt adorning her four poster bed, the old woman hugged Vesemir's gambeson to her breast. A tear trickled down her withered cheek as she sighed. She had two more properties to dispose of before she could move to Kovir in the spring. Her sister-in-law was, even now, looking for a comfortable house in Lan Exiter where Mignole could live out the rest of her days surrounded by family. Her third great-nephew had been born and she had yet to meet him. Perhaps, if she could gather her courage, she would venture into the blue mountains and find Vesemir's beloved Kaer Morhen.

* * *

The old man lounged against the stonework bracketing one side of the upper practice yard, looking sadly at his beloved Kaer Morhen as sundogs bounced off the high battlements. The metallic song of swords rang through the air as the five younger witchers sparred in open melee, playing King of the Castle. Last man "standing" won the game. Vesemir smiled as he remembered his own youthful endeavors in the combat drill. The exercise was designed to hone a witcher's skills against multiple opponents. When there had been a hundred or more neophytes, the game would go on for hours until only a few boys were left in play; usually, the older ones preparing for their first year on the path won.

The old keep had been built when Vesemir was still a boy, before he had endured the murderous trials, and he remembered the carnival air when daily operations had shifted from the much smaller Bastion to the great keep. Back then, they had needed the space as they turned twenty new witchers a year through a completed cycle of trials and mutations. Those boys would spend eight to ten years mastering the basics of their trade before they ventured out onto the Path with a pair of swords, a horse and a bag of twenty crowns to hold them till their first completed contract. For every two men sent off to his first season, only one would return for the winter. Some of those missing would be holed up throughout the continent and show up the next year, but most would be rotting in bogs after a bad hunt had gone sour.

Mortality for new witchers was high. If a Wolf made it to his ten-year mark, chances were good he would see many decades on the path, though the masters always took that grievous headcount as Yuletide approached, deciding who to strike from the active registers. On Midanvern, all the witchers residing in the castle would gather as the Grandmaster would read the lists. If no one had news of a missing witcher, the man would be entered into the Book of the Dead and mourned on the first day of the new year. Vesemir was hopeful he would be spared that sorrow this year, though he had already recorded Jad Karadin as a point of honor since the Cat had given his life defending Micah.

The old witcher narrowed his eyes as Arek struck Kerrass across the back of the legs with the special blade and yellow paint dribbled down the man's thighs. Though weighted like real swords, they had no edge. Rather a hollow groove in place of the fuller was filled with a water-soluble paint that would mark one's opponent when a killing or crippling blow was struck.

"You're out," Kerrass," bellowed the old Wolf on a laugh. The cat shook his head and took his place next to Vesemir, tousling Tolly's dark hair as he thumped against the ancient stones. He accepted the waterskin Micah passed to him and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth after drinking his fill. He joined the women and children calling encouragement to the four witchers battling for the title. Letho's blade whirled in figure eights around him too fast for the eye to follow. As Arek tried to duck in for a score along the big Viper's ribs, Lambert delivered a killing blow to his right shoulder, leaving a smear of hot pink paint down the Manticore's gambeson. The big man hopped up on the wall and swooped Micah into a laughing embrace as he, too yelled encouragement to the three left on the field of battle.

Lambert and Rojhan circled Letho warily, watching for an opening to take the giant down. Suddenly, the Viper struck, feinting at Rojhan. The Griffon leaped over Letho's sword, parrying a blow from Lambert as he landed. He ducked just in time to avoid being scored with the blue paint in the Viper's sword as the young Wolf hacked toward his head. Rojhan dove toward Lambert, gaining his feet with an eviscerating uppercut that laid a green line from Lambert's groin to his neck just as Letho's blade painted the young witcher red across the chest.

"Ahhh FUCK!" yelled the defeated witcher as the observers laughed. He stomped to Keira with an evil grin and hauled her against him for a kiss, ensuring she was as painted as he.

Letho and Rojhan circled each other, the big Viper grinning as though he had already won the game. Rojhan was grinning back, taking his time. The big man had a wicked range and a devastating swing. He was fast, too. It was easy to underestimate the Viper because he would make a play of being slow, then pound you with lightning fast strikes, like the namesake of his school. The griffon awaited his opening, patiently watching for the minute pause in that whirling figure eight that would allow him to duck behind his opponent and strike him down. Letho's blade struck out once, twice, slashing at the dodging Griffon. The third strike flew high, toward Rojhan's neck, so he spun beneath the Viper's thrust and cut his green line horizontally across Letho's belly, carrying him behind the big man to paint him diagonally from shoulder to hip.

"We have a winner!" boomed Vesemir, holding his hands in the air.

"Damn good, Blondie," growled the huge witcher with a vicious grin, tousling the small man's hair in his huge hand.

"Damn straight," laughed Rojhan ducking away. The day dipped toward the edge of the mountains as sunset colors painted land and sky.

"What's for dinner?" wondered the smallest denizen of the keep. Greta's piping question brought sounds of curious agreement as everyone made their way inside to settle by the warm fire and fill their bellies with venison, root vegetables, and fresh bread. Micah allowed the children small portions each of "witcher salad" and "witcher juice", a combination of herbs, mushrooms and herbal extracts that improved bone, muscle and nerve development. When questioned by Keira considering the wisdom of giving it to Greta, the little geneticist assured the other woman that the children would receive vital nutrients and anything with the potential of skewing the endocrine system had already been stricken from the menu.

"Honestly, it wouldn't hurt all of us to be partaking," she had replied. "The greens are full of vitamins and minerals in short supply within the common diet."

As the little girl helped Kerrass clear the supper dishes away, decks of cards and jugs of White Gull were passed around by the other witchers. Lambert snagged Keira for a stroll around the battlements, leaving Micah lounging near the fire watching flames lick along the glowing logs. The room was cold despite the blaze and the little geneticist shivered. Letho pinned her with a hooded stare and sidled up to her, leaning against the stone hearth near her bench.

"Any progress on your elegant solution?" He kept his words low enough that the others would have to concentrate to listen in.

"Some," Micah nodded, rubbing a finger along her livid scar. "I've identified what I think might be the Adept region on the X chromosome. Some more slicing and splicing should solidify my findings."

"What about making new witchers? You've had your head in those books from the Griffon school."

The tiny woman hummed a little to herself, her eyes going unfocused as she thought about the informational bounty. "The Griffons used similar methods to the Wolves. I've already said I'm not reinstating the trials," Micah scowled. "Manticores - the beasts - are going extinct. Even forktails are getting more and more difficult to find, and frankly, if I were an albino bruxa, I'd be really careful to stay off a witcher's itinerary."

Letho chuckled at Micah's raised eyebrow, taking a satisfying gulp of White Gull. "Without the trials, they aren't really going to be witchers. We can teach them to be monster hunters, but they won't have our reflexes or regenerative properties."

"There are other ways of creating chimeras," Micah said as she tucked her feet under her, leaning closer to the warm hearth. "Phage therapy - specialized viruses - can deliver altered DNA into the cells, propagating through the cellular machinery to "infect" the entire host."

"Chimeras. I haven't seen one of those in years," mumbled the big man.

"I didn't mean the beast," she chortled. "In genetics, chimeric organisms usually result when two zygotes merge during development and you end up with one organism that has traits of both genetic lines." Micah was in full lecture mode, now, and Letho tried not to roll his eyes. The little geneticist extended her hands to the fire and continued, "Witchers are manufactured chimeras. Through magical manipulation, your genome has been infiltrated with the DNA of other creatures such that you exhibit those foreign traits. I need some mice to experiment on, but I think I can effect the most important traits we want without a … a fatal level of bombardment."

"What about female witchers? Your past work created breeding populations of your augmented creatures." Letho's words were very slightly slurred as he finished his drink. Micah nodded and cocked her head at him.

"What I'm thinking of should work for women and men."

"Here's to no more sterile witchers," the big man grinned, then scowled as he realized his drink was gone.

"The only reason you can't produce offspring has been the lack of women mutated in the same way you are. I've studied everyone's ...ere … samples," Micah's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, "and you aren't shooting blanks, so to speak. I can't promise you a woman YOU can make babies with the old fashioned way, Letho. But if my method works, any children brought here for the purpose of mutation will be able to mate. Not just with another mutated individual, but with anyone in the general population."

The viper's brows drew together and he grunted. "So the mutations would work their way into the general population?"

"Eventually," Micah nodded, looking up as Arek joined them, placing her delicate hand in his large, callused palm. "But then, I've read some things that make me think it's the right direction to go. The White Frost notwithstanding, there IS an ice age coming. Maybe humanity needs a little help to survive." The little woman stood and smiled at the Viper from her mate's embrace. "We'll be ready for the next conjunction, and by the time the ice sheets cover the North, we'll be ready for that too."


	17. Marching Orders

**I want to acknowledge Kaer Morhen for the details of Ves's captivity in an Elven Scoia'tael unit. You can read the original version of that scene in her story "A Fine Soldier", a sequel to her first fic "A New Way of Life" both of which can be found here on FFN.  
**

 **Also, I want to give a shout out to all the great folks at The Witcher's Lair group on Facebook. Some of you landed in this chapter :P**

* * *

The weather turned colder, though it remained dry. The previous snows hardened into an icy crust on the forest floor, settling into vernal wells and other dips and hollows dotting the forests. Temerian soldiers hunkered down in the cavernous hideout, trying to keep warm and bolster their spirits. Unless they had guard duty, they spent their time mending gear, oiling swords or gambling.

"Faaackme!" spit Jonnan, throwing down his cards in disgust. "There goes me last quarter oren." The big smith shoved away from the makeshift table, spitting as he did so. The gathered soldiers laughed and jostled one another as money changed hands amongst the crowd and another body took Jonnan's place at the table.

"'Ow much ye got to buy in, Quil?" grinned the cooper, shuffling his deck.

"Ten orens and a good, sharp dagger," said the skinny kid, laying his coin and the dagger to the side, treating everyone to his gap-toothed grin.

"Oiye, and ye, Troy? Mack? Ye in this round too?" The men nodded, Troy, stacking his coins from the last pot near his left hand. The crowd leaned in and watched as the men laid their bets and played their hands. There was more gambling amongst the crowd of onlookers than at the table as men bet on how many aces would show up, the likelihood of a straight or a flush, and even which player would scratch his arse next. One of the soldiers looked up, watching Roche's best lieutenant saunter by.

"What I wouldn't give to stick that tasty bit in me pocket when the wars o'er," sneered the man, eyeing Ves's backside.

"Or stick her with what's in yer pants!" guffawed another.

"'Ey, don't let the commander 'ear you talkin' about 'er like that, 'e'll have yer guts fer garters," warned a third man, thumbing the side of his jaw, also watching Ves's backside.

"Not like e's takin' advantage of all that wiggle, now is 'e?" said the first. Someone slapped the soldier across the back of the head.

"Ye dafty, not like 'e'd plough 'is own daughter, now would 'e?" said the slapper.

"She's not 'is blood," spat a camp follower, glowering as Ves turned the corner toward the kitchen cavern. "She's just a glorified camp whore, tha's all.

"Watch it, Trudy," warned Gerda from her perch on Troy's lap. "If Ves catches wind o' that, she'll string ye from the trees like a Belleteyn bustle, she will. She's wicked good with that blade."

"So what's 'er story anyway?" wondered Hulda, Jonnan's wife. "Some 'o ye say she's Roche's daughter, others his whore, others somethin' else entirely. What is it?"

"I 'eard 'e rescued 'er from the squirrels betimes past," put in Troy, jiggling Gerda on his knee.

"Git on wi' ye! Ye sure about that?" Gerda laughed, kissing one of his orens before he tossed it in the kitty.

"'At's what I heard. 'At 'e found 'er bein' done bad, but 'e put a crossbow in 'er 'and an' she done proved to be a dead shot, so 'e kept 'er."

"Doesn't answer what she is to 'im, though," groused Trudy, setting slim hands on her rounded hips.

"Eh, Captain Roche treats 'er like a little sister," Jonnan offered from the fringes of the crowd. "'E 'ired that white 'aired witcher ter save 'er arse when she'n the lads took on the black'uns at Mulbrydale last summer. Took away 'er weapons and confined 'er to camp like she was nawt but a whelp."

Trudy wrinkled her nose. "Commander Roche don't even look at women at'all. 'E's bloody married to Temeria."

"Yer jes' sayin' that cause he shooes ye off when ye tries to warm 'is bed, Trudy," laughed yet another man in the crowd, giving the doxy a pinch on the bottom. The group erupted in coarse laughter when she shrieked in outrage.

"Ye might think it's funny," said a mousy woman with a sour look, "but any o' you lot ever see 'im take a shine to anyone but her? I think 'e turns 'is nose up at other women because 'es sweet on 'er, but 'e can't let on like, ye know?"

Grogan, the card dealer, spoke up then, a grin on his face. "I say we lay book on it. If'n ye think Roche is sweet on Ves or 'er on 'im, say aye and raise yer 'and then put up yer blunt." Grogan pulled out a black, leather bound book from his greasy jerkin, along with a stub of charcoal. Noting whose hands poked the air, recording their odds and taking their money. Likewise, he accepted bets from those who thought Roche's motives more paternal. "Aight, I've set the book. We'll give it a week to find out the truth." The crowd erupted in cheers with their usual rowdy banter. They were utterly oblivious to Vernon Roche's return.

* * *

Leaving his horse in the care of the Blue Stripe on duty, Roche wearily made his way to the rocky alcove serving as his private sanctuary. Skating the lively gathering in the main cavern with stealth born of long practice, he observed the dissolution in progress. None of them noticed his passing, not that these roustabouts were hard to sneak past. Morning would find every one of them cursing his name as he taught them the consequences of letting their guard down. Roche grinned in anticipation.

He slipped into his room, settled the hide over the entry and noted the glowing coals in the firepit with a grateful sigh. Ves's handiwork, no doubt. He tossed his saddlebags at the foot of a rough straw pallet covered with a thick, black bear skin. His gambeson and chaperon followed, leaving him in shirtsleeves with a simple cloak to hold the cold at bay.

 _'I'm getting old,'_ he thought, shoving a hand through dark hair salted with strands of white. _'Used to be I could weather the chill better.'_

Scratching at his jaw, he knelt and blew the embers in the fire pit into a cheery blaze, feeding it carefully with the dried kindling stacked neatly to the side. Perching atop an upturned ale keg he rested his head in his hands, ruminating over all that needed doing before his troops were ready to move out. There were drills to organize, strategies to discuss and logistics to settle. Roche fed another log to the fire and hitched his cloak tighter around his shoulders, considering the future. He was antsy, as he always was on the eve of battle, though his frantic rush to Novigrad and then back at a breakneck pace left him exhausted. He should just crawl under the bearskin and get some rest. His mind wouldn't settle, however, and he thought about the implications of accepting Nilfgaard's offer instead, which brought Roche around to Thaler's suggestion that he should marry Ves before the end of November.

Ves.

He remembered the first time he saw her in that Scoia'tael camp, chained like a dog to a tree so she couldn't run away. They used her for sport, taking turns raping her whenever the fancy struck them. He learned later she had been held captive for nearly a year. There had been other women there, used in like manner, but they were weak and helpless creatures, incapable of raising a hand in their own defense when opportunity struck. Not like his Ves.

' _She was magnificent.'_ He grinned at the memory.

Roche had dispatched three, maybe four commandos when he caught sight of the bruised and bedraggled waif hefting a fallen crossbow, pegging Squirrels with deadly precision. Something shifted inside him as he recognized a kindred spirit and he knew he had to make her part of his Blue Stripes team. She had gotten under his skin that day and stayed there. At first, it was easy to be paternal toward her; she was just a kid after all, barely sixteen. As young as she was, she proved her worth, becoming one of his most trusted and valued soldiers.

Everything changed after Henselt ravaged her and had the rest of the Blue Stripes murdered. Roche would have killed Kaedwen's king just for the death of his commando, but Ves's suffering made him twist the blade an inch deeper in the bastard's gullet. He was just grateful she hadn't been hanged like the lads. The thought of losing her still made his blood run cold and he found himself less and less willing to put her in jeopardy. Was it any wonder she kicked against the traces?

Vernon wasn't exactly sure when he started seeing his lieutenant as an attractive woman, but he had been fighting a losing battle with himself since finding her in that bloody tent where Henselt and Dethmold had left her. No matter how often he determined to treat her just as he always had, he couldn't school his unruly thoughts in unguarded moments. He utterly lost the fight on the battlements at Kaer Morhen when he kissed her, enjoying the feel of her in his arms far more than he should have. He had been retreating from her ever since, desperately trying to get back on stable ground.

"Damn, Ves," he growled, poking at the fire, "I'm too old for you, and an idiot to boot."

* * *

"Here, dearie, take the hot toddy," said Hatchet Molly, the camp cook. "'Fraid we has naught but a little peas porridge with a few shreds o' that wild boar Samsin got 'tother day, but hisself needs the nourishment an' that's fer certain." The big woman was as rawboned as she was honest and loyal to Vernon Roche's guerilla band. Molly handed Ves the plate and a steaming cup of mulled wine, patting the girl on the shoulder with motherly affection. The winsome blond woman smiled fondly at the cook before making her way toward the back caves, ignoring the speculating looks of the gathered soldiers and their companions. She had seen Roche come in and knew by his face that he had news. She came to the covered entrance of his alcove and paused before entering to scratch at the hide.

"Enter," barked the Captain, the rich timbre echoing off the stone. He watched as Ves entered his alcove, glad for her quiet intrusion.

"How did the meeting with Dijkstra go?" She inquired, approaching him with a steaming mug and hot food that smelled delicious. Shrugging, he took the offerings and dug in before replying.

"As well as can be expected." He finished his meal, leaning his forearms on his knees, finishing off the mulled wine with a last, long pull. Dangling the mug, he hunched forward resting his forearms on his knees. "We'll start battle drills in the morning."

Ves wrinkled her nose with a vicious grin and reached for the demijohn of Kaedweni stout she had spied amongst Roche's gear. "The lads are ready for some action. They're getting bored with winter setting in," she said, filling his mug from the demijohn before finding her own cup and settling beside him once more at the fire.

"We move out in three days so we have damn little time to get everything right. We'll see if all the training has been worth it," he sighed, scrubbing his tired face with one hand. His eyes gleamed in the firelight as he continued briefing her. "We have two jobs. One is to run interference for Geralt as he escorts Radovid to Saint Gregory's Bridge, ensure they get there safe and sound. The other is protecting the merchant goods stashed in the catacombs during the battle. Ensuring the wealth of Novigrad doesn't go up in smoke."

Ves tapped her chin. "So we'll need three groups total? One for the catacombs, one for the witcher and a contingent laying in wait. Why the bridge?"

"Because that's where we kill Radovid," he growled, taking a deep pull on his tankard before outlining the whole plan for her.

"We're really doing this, then? Surrendering to Nilfgaard?" She chewed her lip, then muttered, "Some of the lads won't take that well."

"We have to end this war and, for the sake of the North, Radovid has to die to ensure that happens quickly," he bowed his head, grumbling. "Believe me, I don't like it either, but the alternative is unthinkable." He looked into Ves face, not certain if he sought agreement in her gaze or absolution. Firelight flickered off her short, blond hair, casting her features in shadow. His eyes drifted over her fine-boned cheeks, soft lips, pointed chin and … damn his eyes … lower. Fingers itching to touch the velvety skin revealed by her gaping shirt he balled his hand into a fist. Even in winter, she left her laces undone. A scold rose to his lips, but he left it unspoken as she shifted to kneel before him, bringing that enticing flesh closer. His body tightened and he nearly groaned aloud.

Ves gazed at her commander, noting the way he traced the edges of her loosened shirt with those dark eyes, how his breathing hitched just momentarily as his gaze lingered on her cleavage. He wasn't as indifferent to her as she had feared and she dared to lay a hand on his wrist. "They'll follow you, Vernon," she encouraged. "They trust you. None of us would be here if not for you. I'll kill anyone who says otherwise."

A chuckle died in the man's throat as he drowned in the earnest blue of Ves's eyes. Coughing roughly, he glared into the fire.

"The end of it is that Temeria will be a vassal state, though we'll retain most of our independence. The emperor has offered me the dukedom if I'll officially and publicly acknowledge Nilfgaard."

Unsettled, the girl turned from him and fiddled with her mug. "Vernon Roche, a duke. Have to say I didn't see that coming," she joked in a tone that was too bright to be cheery. "I suppose they'll have you leg-shackled before Yule and you'll be holding your first born within the year." The image of him with another woman distressed her more than she would admit as she hid her agitation behind a swig of brew.

Roche pinned her with a determined look, one she was all too familiar with. It was the look he got when he was set on a course of action and nothing would persuade him away from it. "I don't fancy being told who to marry," he murmured. "I aim to ask someone I fancy now. At least have some choice in the matter."

"Oh, and you have an idea who that might be?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and keeping her face deadpan.

He shrugged and scratched his stubbled chin. "There's no lack of willing wenches here. I'm sure one of them would jump at the chance to be a duchess."

"Trudy's always ready for you," scowled Ves, trying to keep her tone light and almost succeeding. Vernon's eyebrow quirked at the note of jealousy he imagined in her words.

"I have someone else in mind, actually," he rumbled, running a finger around the edge of his mug, looking at her pointedly.

"Who?"

He reached for her hand, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles. "You've stood beside me through bad times and worse, Ves. I hope you might stand by me in this. I can't think of anyone I would rather have at my side."

The girl stared at her commander in shock before finding her tongue. "Me? That's crazier than you being a duke!" She laughed nervously, pulling her hand out of his as she thrust to her feet and began to pace in the small cave. "What do I know of nobility or … or court manners?" She stopped briefly to glare at him. "I'm a soldier! I can fight, shoot a crossbow and sing a bawdy song while doing it!" She shook her head at the determined light in his dark eyes, denying his implications. "I know nothing of needlepoint or throwing parties or entertaining heads of state! No. NO! Look at me, Roche. Do I look like I could pull it off to you?"

Vernon stood, grasping her shoulders and pulling her close to him until their bodies touched. Tipping a finger under her chin, he angled her face up to look at him. "You are the fiercest, most competent woman I know, Ves," he purred, intent on convincing her. "I think you would make an exemplary duchess."

Ves stared at him, lost in his intent gaze as her body sang at his touch. His arms circled her and one hand was laying a trail of lightning up and down her back, making it hard to think, and he stared at her with grim challenge tightening his jaw. She never could deny him anything when he looked at her like that. Leaning into his body, she admitted defeat. "Dammit. Alright," she sighed. "When do we post the bans? You'll have to take me as I am, though. I refuse to wear some frilly dress." Biting her lip, she smiled and rested her hands on his chest, watching the play of firelight over the angular planes of his face.

He grinned and her heart did a little flip. "I wouldn't have you any other way," he rumbled like the promise of thunder. His eyes were shadowed as he tentatively stroked her her cheek with his fingers and lowered his mouth to hers. The first tentative kiss sent fire through him, forcing him to utilize every ounce of self-control not to ravage her. Then her lips parted on a gasp and he ceased to think for a little while, bracketing her face in his hands as he drank in the taste of her. She was sweet and tangy and wild, meeting his questing tongue with her own in a dance of spiraling passion that took them both by surprise.

A scrape of metal and the mumble of voices just outside the alcove brought them back to awareness and Roche pulled away just far enough to see Ves's face limned in the firelight. He could feel her heart thudding in her chest, a counterpoint rhythm to his own. If that kiss was any indication, they would go up in flames once they got to bed. In a shaky voice, he said, "We'll get Nels the druid to do the honors after breakfast. That ought to give the lads something to think about during combat drills."

She hummed a little breathlessly at the thought then bit her lip peeking over at the pallet with the bear skin. "I have other drills in mind for tonight," she chuckled saucily, taking his hand. She frowned as he shook his head.

"Not till after our vows, Ves. Call me old fashioned, but you deserve the benefit of my name and more privacy than this cave affords." He gently stroked her face again. "There's an old, abandoned farmhouse east of here. The accommodations aren't any better than this ploughing cave but at least we won't have everyone listening in on us." Ves admitted he was right. Sound carried here and everyone knew everyone else's business. He shooed her off then to find her own bed as he settled under the bearskin. If they survived the next ten days, life would be interesting indeed.

* * *

"Shut yer trap, Trudy," simmered Gerda to the other doxy, scowling at the woman's loud, blubbering wails The two camp followers were bracketed by a grim Troy and a grinning Grogan as they watched Nels bind Commander Roche's left hand to Ves's right with a silken tassel. The three three figures stood framed by the exposed roots of an enormous oak that spread gnarled fingers toward the sky, laced with ice and snow as if Melitele herself had draped bunting in honor of the occasion. The sky, dark and white with threatening clouds at the start of the ritual, began to release thick clumps of soft snow, lending the scene a surreal, fairy-tale touch.

Gerda sniffed, "It ain't like ye had a chance o' a good fuck let alone anything more with 'im, ye know."

"I know, I know," sobbed Trudy, dabbing at her eyes. "Nawt that a girl can't dream, but I do love weddings. Besides, I laid me bet on 'im takin' 'er to bed anyway, so I'm ahead."

"Shut it the both o' ye," Snarled Jonnan sourly. "What I didn't lose at the card table last night, I lost this morning soon as that pair announced their plans. Faack." Half the assembled company commiserated with the dissolute smith.

Nels the druid raised his hands, speaking the ancient lines of the marriage rite and the crowd hushed, leaning forward as one to hear their commander and his lieutenant exchange their vows. The couple sealed their covenant with a kiss that had men sniggering and women sighing throughout the glade. As Vernon and his bride turned toward the gathered troops, Roche's face split in a hideous grin.

"Alright, you lot," he growled viciously, "you've had your fun. Now get to work!"

And work they did, till they spat and cursed and puked as Commander and Mrs. Vernon Roche pushed them mercilessly for perfection. Neither Vernon nor Ves spoke of it throughout training, but the looming battle weighed heavily on both their hearts. At the end of the day, the newlyweds lay in the abandoned farmhouse, cocooned together in thick furs basking in the aftermath of their lovemaking, hoping their preparations were enough.

.


	18. Hurry Saovine

Tretogor wasn't what it used to be. In times past, children would racket through the streets, gathering straw and sticks for their effigies of Falka to toss in the bonfires. Adults observed with tolerant smiles as they planned menus and coordinated with their neighbors to gather wood. A carnival spirit permeated the air in those days, Savoine was anticipated with banners and buntings and festivals leading to the final night of October when everyone would gather and thank the gods for safe passage into the new year.

The only thing that permeated the air now was the crisped stench of burnt flesh and the hush of fear that one might be next if one spoke a word out of place. Celebrating the old holidays was frowned on by the church. Witch hunters were everywhere, ensuring compliance with the Church's dictates. The patrons of the Jester's Head tavern were subdued as they gathered for an evening of company and ale; no one dared speak too boisterously lest they be overheard. They noticed him, but the gathered crowd studiously ignored the stranger sitting at the third table against the wall, his hooded cloak obscuring his face as he ate a thick potage of turnips and peas. Propped beside him was a finely crafted sword in a red leather sheath, the pommel winking in the flickering light of smoky lanterns. He propped his head on his hand, positioned just so; a secret signal recognized by many, another reason to mind one's own business. For nearly an hour he sat there nursing his ale before a man in dark leathers and a ratty cloak slid onto the bench beside him.

"Oiye, pass the salt mate," the man grunted to the stranger, then grunted once again as the cellar was handed over. "Ye know who the Jester was? Takin' a survey for me friends."

The stranger nodded imperceptibly and growled in a low voice, "Demavend, Henselt or Foltest. Take your pick."

"Three cocks on the block and one still crows. 'Ave a pint on me." A silver coin was slid toward the stranger, along with a scrap of paper before the patron swung himself off the bench and ambled toward the bar, saying nothing more.

The stranger palmed coin and note then made his way out of the taproom, his head sunk low in his hood. Wrapping the woolen folds of his cloak about him against the frost, he made his way to the stable where stood a beautiful black stallion nose deep in a bag of warm oats.

"At least they don't mind feeding and housing you, boy," muttered the man, securing his sword under the saddle next to its silver sister. Eskel pushed his hood back just enough to take a good look around the paddock before tugging it back into place. He couldn't shake the feeling of being followed for the last several days, though he hadn't yet caught sight of anyone. Shaking his head, he stepped into the saddle and guided the horse toward the eastern gate. "Let's go, Scorpion. Sooner we meet up with these freedom fighters, the better."

Once on the road, the scarred Wolf read the note and headed toward a particular abandoned farmstead about two hours distant from the city. The trip was uneventful and even the itch between the witcher's shoulder blades eased for the first time since leaving Vizima. Finding a nook after settling Scorpion in the abandoned barn and strapping his swords across his back, he ruminated over the events of the last several days. The trip from Vizima to the border town of Rinbe had been pleasantly boring. People were hunkered down to endure the early winter, hoping their stores would last till the land awoke from its hibernation. Still, the further north he traveled, the less tolerant they were of him, and he had spent the last three nights dozing in snow caves, trying to keep his fire going through the night. The Path was harder on Scorpion, though. The horse had to paw through ice-encrusted snow to find small mouthfuls of dead grass to keep him going.

The trail went cold in Rinbe when the witcher discovered the DeLong family were dead and every retainer who had gone to Radovid's bloody Belleteyne with them. Eskel had tried to talk his way into the manor to continue his investigation, but the newest Barron of Rinbe, a member of the Witch Hunters, had threatened to arrest him and plant him on a stake if he didn't take himself off immediately.

'The peasantry were somewhat helpful,' he thought. 'Gave me the signal to make contact with the rebellion. Could have been chasing around Redania for months if not for them. Hope this isn't a setup, though.'

The scarred Wolf settled down and began tending his steel blade, sharpening the edge and oiling it well with a soft cloth and a particularly noxious brew that would fester in a man's wounds, causing debilitating pain. Stowing his oil and cloths away in a saddlebag, Eskel pricked up his ears at the sound of three, no four, horses approaching from the west. Slipping the steel sword from its sheath, he silently padded to the door of the barn as the animals cantered into the yard, kicking up crusted ice and snow. Four riders dismounted, spreading out from their mounts.

"So where is he? Yandal said we had a live 'un," one voice muttered, the man on the right.

"He'll either be here or he won't," spoke the cultured voice of the man nearest the barn. "I'd rather find out now if he's committed enough to show. We're not priests to chase down our recruits."

"Let's 'ope 'e shows soon. Don't fancy being out 'ere long enough for the witch'unters ta find us," groused the third man.

Re-sheathing his blade, Eskel stepped out of the barn, letting the door creak on its hinges. Four heads swiveled toward him and four hands reached for weapons. The witcher held his hands out to his side as he strode into the yard, subtly giving himself enough room to fight if need be.

"Three crows on the fence, where's the fourth?" asked the man with the cultured voice.

"In the ditch with a fifth," responded the witcher in a droll tone.

The four horsemen visibly relaxed, sheathing their weapons as they chuckled. The man with the cultured voice came forward, extending an arm to clasp with Eskel's.

"I'm Val, and these three are Rumm, Harry, and Dogger."

"Eskel," said the Wolf, nodding at each man in turn before leading Scorpion out of the barn and mounting up. They rode northeast into the forest, crossing their tracks several times over the course of an hour before dropping into a dry gulch and following the rocky stream bed uphill for three miles. Eskel was impressed. These men obviously knew their path well to follow it even in the darkness under the trees. The trail was winter bright, cold moonlight illuminating snow and barren branches, revealing a chiaroscuro landscape that concealed dangers in its shadows. A wrong step could result in a lamed horse, or worse, a crippled horse and a thrown rider. An hour after midnight they rode into a moderately sized clearing, met by the whinnied greetings of several horses off to the side.

"A witcher!" exclaimed Val as he led Eskel into the lighted cavern, examining the Wolf's medallion and eyes. "Wolf school. You would know Geralt of Rivia, then."

"Yeah, grew up together," grunted Eskel, taking in the few people huddled around small fires for warmth.

"I owe him my life," murmured the freedom fighter. "He spared me on the battlements of LaValette castle and at Loc Muinne."

"Aryan LaValette?" queried the Wolf, eyes narrowing at the young Baron, receiving an answering nod. Eskel looked over the bare handful of fighters and assorted other people in the cave. "Not many people gathered to your banner."

"We've a skeleton crew at the moment. I've sent the bulk of my men to help Vernon Roche in Novigrad." The Baron motioned for the scarred wolf to follow as he strode through the camp. "These lads and I … we have another mission. One you might help with if you're willing."

"I'm curious," Eskel murmured, "Why take up the peasants' cause in Redania? Why not just join Roche's partisan forces?"

"I have my reasons," gritted the young man, leading Eskel along a narrow tunnel and turning in at a private chamber. "I discovered where John Netalis hid my sister and aimed to get her back. Gathering the peasants to my cause was an unintended benefit. It seems for all Radovid is a tactical genius, for all he can be quite charming, his instabilities have deepened in the last year to outright madness and the people won't stand for it."

"So you are leading a grassroots uprising," the witcher said. "Is Anais still alive?"

LaValette sighed, "I don't know yet, but I'll find out soon. I could use your help."

"You're in luck, then. I've a contract to find both of you," Eskel said with a wry grin.

"What do you mean you have a contract for both of us?" Aryan's hand inched toward his sword as his brows crashed over his eyes.

"Relax," chuckled the witcher, "it's not that kind of contract. Seems the Emperor of Nilfgaard has an offer he wants to make you. As for Anais …"

"They want her to solidify their claim to Temeria," Aryan finished, shoving a hand through his shock of dark hair with a scowl. " If she's even still alive, which I have begun to doubt."

Eskel spied a demijohn of something alcoholic, snagging it and a pair of cups he indicated a bench near the fire and poured two stiff drinks. "Tell me what you know," he said, knocking his drink back as the Baron started talking, the vodka clearing his sinuses as it burned a path down his throat.

"After Loc Muinne, with the support of the nobles, Anais was installed as Temeria's queen and John Netalis acting as interex," Aryan said in a tired voice. "When it was clear Nilfgaard was going to attack, he hid her away in Redania to keep her safe. Didn't tell anyone where though. Disguised her as a peasant child, in fact."

"I ran across some papers to that effect," murmured the witcher.

"Do you also know she was hidden in the DeLong's household and taken to Tretogor for Radovid's Belleteyn feast?" the Baron snarled.

"Knew about the DeLongs. Didn't find out many of the family retainers went with them in May till I talked to some of their crofters recently."

"Yeah, well I don't know if Anais was in that group," huffed Aryan taking a generous swig of vodka. The trail just dried up at the DeLong estate."

Eskel palmed his chin, rubbing a thumb over his scars. "If we knew how many children between the ages of … how old is she? Four? Five summers?"

The baron nodded and held up a hand with all five digits extended then muttered, "There were several of the right age and gender. Four girls and five boys. Six of the children were orphans taken in by the DeLongs between September 1271 and May 1272."

"The rumors … the kids in the dungeons?" Logs in the fire broke down into glowing coals, hissing and popping in the ensuing silence. Aryan tossed back the remainder of his drink before his grim-eyed gaze met the witcher's own.

"It's true," Aryan gritted. "We've tried infiltrating, getting the children out … The castle's been too well guarded until now and there's that damned monster in the guts underneath." The young man's gaze turned bleak. "I tried leading a team through the sewers, tried to infiltrate the dungeons shortly after the Feast. I took twelve seasoned fighters in with me … and limped out with two." Eskel could hear the strain of ceramic in LaValette's hand as the man stewed in the memory.

"So the rumors about Adda are also true?" Eskel asked, deadpan. Aryan nodded, emptying his cup and holding it out for a refill.

"Radovid found a way to put her back under the curse and then installed her in the oubliette, the labyrinth under the holding area of his dungeons." The young baron's eyes were bleak. "She's … I don't know how to put this. Fearsome and enormous and faster than you can imagine. She tore through my men like a table knife through butter and I'm not ashamed to say that we ran from her." The witcher listened gravely, scratching at his scarred cheek as Aryan continued after a draught of liquid courage, "We tried infiltrating in other ways - posing as laborers and such. But the keep is too well guarded and all we managed was to place some of our own people to act as spies."

"And now? What's changed?" Eskel asked, taking another sip of vodka, nursing his drink along.

"Most of the royal guardsmen have gone, in the last week, to Novigrad to repel Nilfgaard and my informant tells me there's only two prisoners left."

"Anais?" The scarred Wolf tipped a mouthful of vodka past his lips.

"Not sure. One older boy and a much younger child. We'll need to move fast, though. My man said they would be feeding the queen soon; they're just waiting on the full moon." Aryan's words brought a disgusted scowl to the witcher's face, twisting his visage into something savage. The baron nodded, snarled, "What kind of bastards do that? Make children into sacrifices?" The Baron finished his vodka in one swift move and threw the cup at the cavern wall with a curse.

Eskel ran a hand down his tired face and spoke softly, "Full moon's tomorrow … no, tonight. It's close to dawn now."

The baron stood and motioned to one of four palettes in the chamber. "Help yourself to a bed. We'll go over strategy in a few hours."

* * *

Leather creaked as Kerrik of Rinbe stood away from the crack where his ear had been pressed for the last hour. Luckily for him, the geology was favorable to eavesdropping and he had heard everything the baron and the witcher said. Well, geology was part of it. He'd have heard shite all if not for the mutations. Recent memories of the torturous process rose, tearing at his already shredded psyche and he narrowed cat-like golden eyes in a murderous scowl. Twenty good witch hunters, including him, had volunteered for Muire's special assignment. Kerrik was the only man to survive the first round of mutations. There would be more of his ilk made as soon as the blasted mages got their spells figured out.

Kerrik still struggled over why HIS existence was acceptable to the Church but the witchers were foul and inhuman creatures. More and more over the last two weeks, he had come to the conclusion that any asset not under direct control of the Eternal Flame was a rogue power and must be snuffed out. Mages had their uses, so long as they were kept in their place, tempered with dimeterium shackles and doing the Hierarch's bidding. Likewise, witchers should be under the control of the witch hunters. Free agency only led to contempt.

A hard shudder wracked his body and he took a step back, sending small rocks and ice tumbling down the hillside. Throwing himself flush against the ground he held his breath, hoping he hadn't been noticed. Kerrik stayed where he was for some minutes, letting the spasms pass before crawling away from the caves and stealthily moving in a wide circle back to his dun mare. Tretogor was a couple hours away and if the Flame favored him, the witch hunter would find Anais LaValette, pretty as you please, warming a dungeon cell. There would be hell to pay if the chit had died in that hole, but not like it was his fault.

"I'll blame it on the fookin' witcher," Kerrik grunted as he mounted his horse and kicked her into a gallop.

* * *

That itch was back. Nestled right between Eskel's shoulder blades, it burned along the nerve endings, warning him of trouble and making him jumpy. He looked at the exterior battlements of Tretogore Castle, limned in dazzling moonlight and hazed by frost. It was too bright for covert operations in Eskel's opinion. The witcher scrubbed his fingers through the thickening bristle at his jaw and turned his head to listen to LaValette's whispered instructions to the gathered men.

The scarred Wolf scowled. Ten men, including Baron LaValette, would gain entry to the royal fortress via the merchant's entrance, posing as an overdue wine convoy. From there, they would make their way into the dungeons and free any prisoners before moving into the labyrinth to effect their escape. Eskel would enter the sewers and access the catacombs where Adda was said to roam, killing the striga to ensure a safe retreat for the baron's team. Further discussion with the two soldiers that had survived with LaValette in May convinced him there was no other option; Adda's curse was now irreversible. Eskel looked up from his rumination as men clambered into the bed of a wagon, crawling into large, empty wine barrels. Hammer blows sounded with dull thuds as the lids were taped into place

"God's speed, witcher," growled Aryan, clasping hands with the scarred Wolf before he leaped to a wagon bed where he hunkered in his own barrel, preparing to be sealed in. "With luck, we'll meet soon in the dungeons. Give us an hour to reach the castle, then things should go swiftly from there. Are you sure you don't want some of my men to go with you into the labyrinth?"

Eskel shook his head, his gaze on the young noble steady as his mouth pinched in a scowl. "They would be a liability in the dark and I'm used to hunting alone. I should have the path clear by the time we meet up." The hammer thudded once again then a tarp was thrown over the "wine" barrels before the wagon trundled off to the city's Eastern gate. Alone at the edge of the forest, Eskel rolled his shoulders to ease the itch before setting off for the city walls to the north.


	19. Royal Grounds

That itch was back, nestling right between Eskel's shoulder blades. It burned along his nerve endings, warning him of trouble, making him jumpy. He looked at the exterior battlements of Tretogore Castle, limned in dazzling moonlight and hazed by frost. He didn't need an itch to warn him about trouble, it was right in front of him. The night shimmered with moonlight nearly as bright as day. Far too bright for covert operations in Eskel's opinion. The witcher scrubbed his fingers through the thickening bristle at his jaw and turned, LaValette's whispered instructions to his gathered men loud in his ears.

The scarred Wolf scowled. Ten men led by Aryan LaValette would gain entry to the royal fortress via the merchant's entrance posing as an overdue wine convoy. From there, they would make their way into the dungeons and free any prisoners before escaping into the labyrinth. Eskel would enter the sewers and access the catacombs and kill the striga, ensuring a safe retreat. It wasn't a bad plan if they could manage to pull it off, but the witcher's gut instincts told him things rarely went to plan. Too much could go wrong between the merchant gate and the sewer exit. Regardless of his premonitions, it was too late to back out now.

Eskel's thoughts turned to the monster; Queen Adda the White, illegitimate and incestuous daughter of the late King Foltest. Aryan and two of his men had barely escaped from the catacombs with their lives in May. Further questioning of the Baron and his troops revealed Adda's curse was now irreversible. She had become a Greater Striga - faster, smarter and far more deadly than she had been even two years ago. For a moment he felt pity for the Queen. The victim of her father's sins, she had done nothing to deserve this fate. He shook his head, stuffing away sentiment better examined over a flask of vodka next to a roaring hearth fire with his brother Wolves. The clatter of weapons and armor drew the Wolf from his ruminations as he watched Aryan's troop crawl into large, empty wine barrels in the bed of the wagon. Hammer blows sounded with dull thuds as the driver tapped lids into place over the concealed men.

"God's speed, witcher," growled Aryan, clasping hands with the scarred Wolf before he leaped to the wagon bed, hunkering into his own barrel, preparing to be sealed in. "With luck, we'll meet soon in the dungeons. Give us an hour to reach the castle, then things should go swiftly from there. Are you sure you don't want some of my men to go with you into the labyrinth?"

Eskel shook his head, his gaze on the young noble steady as his mouth pinched in a scowl. "They'd be a liability in the dark and I'm used to hunting alone. I'll have the path clear by the time we meet up." LaValette nodded once, then made himself small as the lid hid him from view. The hammer thudded once again. Eskel helped the driver throw a tarp over the "wine" barrels before the wagon trundled off to the city's Eastern gate. Alone at the edge of the forest, Eskel rolled his shoulders to ease that incessant itch before setting off for the walls to the north.

Segmented moats alternating with dry ditches surrounded the city, creating a landscape of frozen ponds and rough marshes in turn. Following LaValette's directions, Eskel clambered through the rough terrain, finally coming to the city's sewer drain. The solid metal sluice gate, set on recessed tracks in the wall, could be raised or lowered from inside the keep, but at the moment it was frozen into the icy surface of the full ditch. The ice was broken and mounded against the metal as if the gate had been raised recently, but it was still solid enough to walk on with no fear of falling through. Unsure whether this was a good sign or ill, the witcher put an ear to the frozen surface of the moat. Water flowed freely under the ice, gurgling through the arched wall to a depth of about ten feet. The gate was open. He was going for a swim.

"Shit."

* * *

Kerrik's grin was hideous. He strode through the castle, skipping down a steep well of stairs to a heavy oak door bound with equally heavy iron girdings. The witch hunter had arrived at the royal palace as the sun rose and immediately dragged Watch Captain Mikal from his warm bed and warmer bed companion. Together, they had inspected every entrance into the castle and briefed the royal guard. The plan was to let LaValette and his men in, allow them to proceed to the dungeons, then spring a trap on them. The Queen would see to the witcher down in the catacombs. Whoever survived the melee would be dragged before Radovid to face the King's justice once the monarch returned to Tretogore.

Pounding on the door, the witch hunter glared at the guard who opened the spy hole. The door creaked open revealing the Captain's stony face.

"Everything's ready above. How are preparations here?" Kerrik demanded.

"We got everyone hid in the cells, makin' it look like an empty dungeon," the man grinned. "An' the chutes into th' oubliette are wider than a man can span. This level can't be accessed from below unless that witcher's a damn spider."

"You aren't worried the queen can get through, Captain?" murmured the witch hunter provocatively, "I hear tell she's as tall as a house now."

"She may be able to reach, but she's far too big to fit into the shafts. Tall as a house and just as broad. Big and braw and vicious," chuffed the Captain as he led the Kerrik around to the various cells where the guardsmen lay in wait.

"I hear you have real prisoners currently." Kerrik's disinterested voice echoed of cold stones as they walked.

"Aye, the last two brats from the bloody Feast. They's nearest the labyrinth entrance."

"I'd like to see them if I might?"

"What's ye need to see two skinny mugs like that fer?" Mikal grumbled.

"I have my reasons. And I'll remind you that I have a Royal as well as an Ecclesiastical writ to do as I will," the witch hunter's words were full of menace. "I'm on the Hierarch's business."

The captain scowled and signaled the other man should follow. "Still don't know what a witcher's doin' working for the Church. No secret yer kind is hated," Mikal spat.

"I've already explained it to you and you've read the writ. Even a witcher can have a change of heart." The lie tripped easily off Kerrik's tongue and he grinned.

* * *

Eskel sank to his knees on the ice, calming his breathing as he focused his mind. The sluice gate was open at the bottom to allow sewage to flow out of the city. A quick blast of igni would be sufficient to melt the ice on this side, but what about the other? His brow furrowed in thought, then cleared as he grimaced. The witcher took off his cloak and folded it neatly, tucking it into his waterproofed satchel as he pulled out three potion bottles. Flipping the lid off the first, he downed Petri's Philter and steeled himself for its effects, shivering in the night air as his veins stood out stark and black against the sudden pallor of his skin. Cat and Black Blood took their place in his bandolier next to Swallow, Full Moon and Blizzard, close at hand where he could get at them easily. He decided against using bombs; stealth was critical.

Taking a deep breath, Eskel made the igni sign concentrating all his strength into the spell, watching as the sluice gate began to glow where the fire hit it and tendrils of steam laced the air. Ice groaned under Eskel's weight as the witcher steeled himself a bare second before the frozen surface shifted and flipped, dumping him into the frigid water. It wasn't as cold as the lake at Kaer Morhen, but it was cold enough to rob him of breath momentarily. Sucking in air, the witcher dived into the foul sludge, feeling his way past the bottom of the gate then surfacing on the other side.

* * *

"Halt, where ye goin'?" commanded the guard at the castle's merchant gate.

"Oiy gots wine," barked the wagon driver. Broke me axle in Riverford and was 'oled up 'alf a day. Gots te get these barrels into 'is Majesty's wine cellar else they'll freeze and be shite fer the king's table. Straw 'n canvas only go so far, ye know."

"Ye gots a pass?" The guard ambled over to the wagon and lifted the tarp to poke at the barrels.

"Oiy do an' it's not back there, ye dafty!" groused the driver, pulling a ragged packet of velum out of his shirt.

"Looks all right 'n tight. Go on in." The guard hooked a thumb at the entry as he signaled the portcullis to be raised. The wagon rumbled through the gate and down the path toward the kitchens, bumping over cobblestones in the darkened alleyway. Pulling up at the entrance to the wine cellars, the driver stopped the cart, clicking his tongue at the horses. A drudge shambled out and sidled up to the driver.

"Gots the whole kitchen staff drunk as lords and passed out. But get the lads unloaded quickly," said the drudge, looking about nervously. The men worked quickly, releasing LaValette and his team.

"We need to get into the service corridor quickly, Thomas" muttered the Baron to the kitchen drudge, casting about for any unwelcome observers. "The sooner we move the better."

"Somethin's up, m'lord, n' ye need to be on yer toes," grumbled Thomas, his fingertips dragging across his scalp roughly. "Some witch hunter showed up this mornin' and the guard's been in a tizzy since. Jes watch yerselves down there. Not sure what's afoot."

Aryan scowled, looking suspiciously around the courtyard once again. "Take Marnek's place on the wagon, no need for you to put yourself at risk any longer," the Baron motioned at the wagon with his chin."

"Aye, an' that I will, guv. C'mon, I'll show ye the way to the dungeon galley." Thomas swiftly led the gathered fighters to an exterior door and unlocked the heavy oak and iron portal with a key that jingled merrily on an iron ring with several others. Passing the keyring to LaValette, he said, "Dun need that no more, but those keys'll get ye through a few more doors down there."

Gripping Thomas shoulder in thanks, Baron LaValette turned into the dark corridor, motioning for his men to follow. The door swung closed behind the last of the fighters and three breaths later a silent arrow bristled from Thomas' back followed a moment later by another that slid between his ribs and pierced his heart. The drudge sighed to the ground, his mouth gaping as his life seeped into the rough cobbles of the yard. A shadow peeled away from the black entry of the smoke house and ran toward the main castle.

* * *

"On yer feet, ye mangy fleas!" hollered the prison guard at the door to their dark cell. Gracen jerked awake, kicking rats off his feet as he did so. The children struggled against their bonds to stand as the cell door swung open on shrieking hinges. They knew what this meant. Today they would meet the Queen.

"They's both here, guv, Cap'n," grumbled the guard as Kerrik ambled in to inspect the prisoners.

"These are all that's left?" he barked, his face obscured in shadow even as his form was rimmed in flickering torchlight.

"Aye the last two got fed t' the Queen about a fortnight ago," boasted the guard. "Jes got word we's to clear the dungeons as Savoine's nigh an' 'is Majesty wants a fresh start come November."

The witch hunter grunted and scratched the underside of his chin. "Bring that torch here. I want to see them." His voice was unpleasant, grating and ugly. The light flickered and both children covered their eyes at its brightness. Shoving Gracen away, the man grabbed Pip with a rough hand. "That one's too old," he spat, "and this one?"

"Dunno, sir. Think this lad can't be more'n four he's so wee," said the guard, backing out of the cell a little way.

Kerrik spat again and released the child, turning toward the guard. "Were there any girls?"

"Aye, guv. But they's been fed to her Majesty long since. Final lass went to serve the Queen … lemme think … yep was the last feeding."

"Did you keep records of who was here?" he asked, irritation seeping through his tone.

"Nay. Weren't told we had to. They's just bairns. None to care for 'em anyway," the guard groused.

"If she were here, she's long dead now," Kerrik mumbled low to himself, straightening. Louder, he added, "The King wants a clean sweep for Saovine, you said?" He moved to the door of the cell while the guard bent and freed the children from their chains.

"Aye, was jest ready to send 'em down into the labyrinth. Wanna watch?" The witch hunter and Captain exchanged glances then nodded.

"Come on ye brats," laughed the guard yanking the children behind him, "Queen Adda's hungry. Time to give her dinner!"

* * *

Trudging through the long tunnel, waist deep in sewage and using intermittent blasts of igni, Eskel shivered his way along until the ground sloped up and the passage opened onto drier ground. Retching at the vile taste, he quaffed a dose of Cat that enabled him to see details in the stygian darkness surrounding him. Stonework came into focus as the potion took effect, expertly cut and fitted together in the elven fashion. The witcher crouched and inspected the floor of the chamber. Unless he was mistaken, this was the original drainage system of the elven settlement before humans came to the continent. Looking carefully, he found a faint, stumbling footprint leading back toward the sluice gate, then a bit further away, a splash of blood that hadn't been washed away with flowing sewage. Carefully, the Wolf followed LaValette's tracks deeper under the city till he came to a carved stone ladder.

He stopped to listen, stilling his own breath, hushing the rhythm of his heart till it was slow and quiet. Soft sighs and pops from new ice drifted down various tunnels to his keen ears, the scrape and patter of rodent feet scurried off to his left, the splash of new sewage reverberated further down the tunnel. Filtering out these sounds, Eskel focused his senses above, to what awaited him at the top of the ladder. Nearby, a deep, animal rumble sounded then the scrape of a chain, further away came the whisper of a high pitched whimper that danced along the walls.

* * *

The men dragged Gracen and Pip along the hallway, laughing raucously every time one of the children stumbled or got shoved too roughly into a wall. The narrow passageway ended in several deep chutes, one of which was topped by a three foot by three-foot metal box open on the top and suspended on a thick chain. The guard flung Pip into the cage first, followed by Gracen, roughly shoving a lid over the opening and trapping the children inside. Grunting, he locked the metal sheeting over the top with cleverly designed hasps, trapping the prisoners inside.

"So, you lower the cage down the chute," murmured Kerrik, "but once at the bottom, how do you force the prisoners out of it and bring it back up?"

"That's the special bit," said the Captain, a malicious gleam lighting his eyes. "See these narrow cables here?" The witch hunter nodded. "These control the bottom of the cage - pull a pin that makes the bottom fall out. The box is flush to the sides of the hole, see? So there's nothing for a prisoner to hold on to." The guard pulled a small metal lever down then pumped a larger wooden handle rhythmically as the box began to shudder and descend into the hole.

"It goes all the way to the bottom?" Kerrik asked.

"Nay, it don't," huffed the guard, working up a sweat. "It stops about four feet from the floor an' tha's where we dump the prisoners. Then we leave the box in place till her Majesty takes care o' the trash." The captain let Kerrik pull the cables when the box had been lowered all the way, the solid thunk of metal resounding to the terrified cries of the children.

"Cap'n! Cap'n!" screeched the voice of a young guard skittering down the passageway toward the gathered men. "Cap'n, they's here and headed in through the galley!"

Kerrik's smile was predatory as he looked at the Captain. "Showtime."

* * *

Gritting his teeth against a ragged chill, the narrow walls scraping against his shoulders and back as the witcher ascended the ladder. Deep gouges scored the inside of the tube as if huge claws had thrust into the hole, ripping stones from their foundations.

Hauling himself onto the floor at the top, the witcher crouched, sniffing the air as his fingers brushed the twisted metal of the twisted grating once used as a manhole cover. A shrill scream spurred him into motion and he forgot about the surrounding stench. Checking the ground, he followed a trail of dragging footsteps toward the center of the labyrinth. Another rattle of chains, this time from the way he had come, shrieked through the tunnels followed by a splash and a thud. With a sinking feeling, Eskel realized the sluice gate had been sealed.

"Fuck!"

Another high pitched scream followed by a monster's throaty bellow split the air and Eskel hoped he would be in time. Chugging Black Blood as he ran, the Wolf raced through the twisting passageways.

* * *

Slipping into the prison's galley, Baron LaValette and his men readied their weapons and crept toward the dungeon door. They entered the silent gaol, moving from empty cell to empty cell in the first gallery. There were no guards, no prisoners, no signs of life at all.

'Feels like a trap,' thought Aryan as they approached the second gallery. The cells contained nothing but rotting piles of hay and tatters of rough spun blankets reeking of misery.

Just as the team reached an open chamber the clarion blast of a hunting horn sounded in the narrow confines behind them and armed men burst from hay and blankets as the first harsh clash of steel ricocheted through the dungeon. The distant, bugling roar of a monster shook mortar from the stone walls as the battle was joined.

* * *

Skidding to a halt, Eskel nearly collided with the broad backside of a huge creature. It towered over him, knocking small stones loose from the ceiling of the spacious chamber, roaring its frustration at two forms huddled in a small, deep recess in the wall.

"Hey, you bitch!" shouted the witcher, throwing the empty potion vial at the monster's back. "Pick on someone your own size!" The witcher's silver sword, marinated in Cursed oil, slid with a deadly hiss from its scabbard as he took a strong back stance, engard at Ox.

"A witcher," rumbled Queen Adda as she turned her imposing bulk to face him, her lips pulled back over impossibly long fangs. No longer human nor even a simple striga, Adda's skin shone black with lighter gray patterning over her torso and legs. Her eyes glowed blood red from a sharp, dog-like face. Her arms and legs were thick, muscular, and ended in elongated paws tipped with razor sharp claws.

"Come to lift the curse again?" she snapped at him, her stinking, hot breath washing over him as her chuckling growl ran away down side passages.

"Not this time, your majesty," rasped the witcher, circling her, wheeling his sword around him like a ribbon of silver. "It's no longer possible. I'm sorry."

"Then die!" she roared, charging at him.

* * *

Kerrik bounded into the melee alongside Mikal, snarling as a rush of adrenaline surged through his body. Almost without thought his mace leaped to his hand, crashing into the armored chest of one intruder before the witch hunter whirled behind the gasping man and brought the weapon down on the back of his skull. A battle cry burst forth as he lunged toward his next victim. Next to him, one of the guards was cut down, then another. Though the defenders outnumbered these rebels two to one, LaValette's men had nothing to lose; they fought like demons, pushing their way further into the dungeon.

* * *

Reaching grotesque hands to snatch at him, Adda grasped only air when the Wolf pirouetted and spun behind her. He brought his silver blade up, slashing her flank open and eliciting a bellow of rage. The queen turned in a flash, almost faster than Eskel could track, a deep growl thrumming through her chest like that of an angry cat. They circled each other warily, neither willing to feign or lunge out of turn. The striga's claws drew grooves on the stone floor as she moved, digging up mortar and small blocks in equal measure.

Eskel feigned high, toward her eyes, then spun and slashed at her belly, clipping her across one breast and the inside of her arm. She snarled and lashed out with the uninjured appendage, catching him across the small of his back and sending him sprawling to the floor.

* * *

Aryan lunged and skewered a guard in the armpit, the tip of his blade sliding deeply into the man's sixth intercostal space and severing his ascending aorta. Dead before LaValette could retract his sword, he slid wordlessly to the ground, eyes glazing in sightless accusation toward the heavens. The impact of a sword across his shoulders sent the Baron stumbling and before he could get his sword up to parry, another blow left his left arm dangling at his side. Spinning his blade in his right hand, he parried the third swipe that would have freed his head from his neck. Countering with a swing that devastated the bottom half of his enemy's face. The man's lower jaw dangled from a mere strip of flesh as he erupted in a gurgling scream, cut short by another's blade.

* * *

The witcher hit the floor hard and his sword was knocked from his hand to skitter across the cobbles. The Queen was on him with a leap and Eskel barely had time to flash a quen bubble around himself before she landed on him hard, stunning him momentarily. He was tiring, but desperate to hold the magical shield in place as she snapped at him with hideous jaws. Rearing to her full height, Adda came smashing down on him again with claws extended. Pushing the strongest blast of aard he could summon, Eskel knocked her away, tossing her to her back and giving himself time to scrabble for his blade.

Adda regained her feet in a trice, bounding after the agile man, swiping huge chunks of wall into rubble a few inches behind him. He desperately lunged for the hilt of his silver sword, winking at him against the far wall. Just as his hand closed over the hilt, Adda surged forward, wrapping the witcher in hard embrace, tackling him and sinking her fangs into his left shoulder.

* * *

Desperation aside, the intruders finally quailed in the face of superior numbers. For a span of heartbeats, Kerrik was sure the rebels would win when their leader ran Mikal through. But the death of their leader galvanized the Tretogor host and they pushed back viciously, cutting down all but Aryan LaValette. Victory was hard won, however, and only a handful of guardsmen were left along with Kerrik to face the Baron's madly swinging broadsword as he backed down the corridor.

Aryan retreated till his boot knocked a stone down the hole immediately behind him, his breath harsh as he heard the sounds of combat from below.

' _Eskel must be dancing with the Queen.'_ he thought dully, looking defiantly at the men who pressed towards him. _'Damn shame we're both going to die down here.'_

Kerrik surged forward, his flail connecting with the Baron's chest, sending the man tumbling backward into the dark hole.

"Let's get down there and finish him off," snarled the witch hunter, glaring around at the five survivors gathered in the corridor with him.

The men began to grumble and hedge, their battle euphoria dissipating as they considered what lay beneath them. One bold guard dared to speak what all of them were thinking. "Eh, why we wanna do that, guv? Queen'll finish 'im off right n' proper. Hear that? She's doin' for 'im already!"

"Aye," another piped up, edging away from the witch hunter as a gurgling scream rose from the pit. "She don't make no nevermind twixt friend ner foe - she'll kill whoever goes down there." Kerrik scowled at the craven men who grumbled and began to back away.

"I'll go myself, you lot of cowards," he grated. A short search produced a length of thick rope which he looped over the winch assembly. Without a second thought, Kerrik climbed down into the waiting darkness.

* * *

The scarred Wolf screamed and thrust the tip of his blade backward, hoping to hit something vital and make the strigga let go. Her snuffling grunts bubbled in his ear for a few seconds, ten, twenty, and he felt himself weaken as his life's blood flowed into her grinding maw. Suddenly, she released him, backpedaling and swiping at her muzzle, clawing at her throat with misshapen paws. Eskel roared in triumph and spun toward the Queen, shoving the tip of his sword into her belly, angled up so it pierced her heart and exited from the side of her neck.

She fell back, taking the injured witcher to the floor with her, weakened paws flailing as she gasped, "Death … death lifts the curse too." Her words were a tortured sigh as the striga's body morphed, shrinking until Eskel found himself hunched over the human form of Adda the White. He raised a shaking hand to close her eyes, his fingers brushing away a tear glittering on her cheek.

"I'm sorry," Eskel gasped, "sorry I couldn't free you any other way." Fumbling with his bandolier, the scarred man palmed a dose of swallow, tossing the sickly sweet potion down his throat as he coughed and retched. He yanked his sword free of the woman's body and staggered to his feet, lurching away as a resounding crash echoed through the labyrinth. Looking toward the back wall, Eskel registered the three alcoves lined up in a row. In the first huddled two children, in the last lay the battered body of Aryan LaValette.

"Damn, Aryan," the witcher husked weakly, staggering to the fallen man. The Baron groaned and struggled to sit up.

"We… failed," Aryan coughed, spitting blood and sputum to the floor as he crawled out of the alcove. "They cut us to pieces."

"Yeah, our escape route's been closed, too," grunted Eskel, pulling the Baron out of the alcove and onto his feet. "Someone tipped them off. It was a trap all along." The men held each other up as Eskel led the Baron to lean against the wall. The sudden hiss of a rope sent a sick feeling surging through his gut, however. As he turned, a heavy form landed on its feet and stalked into the center of the room.

"Got you all wound up right and proper, now don't we, witcher," growled the witch hunter, his mutated eyes glowing yellow in the dark, matching the spark in Eskel's. "Just two loose ends to tuck away now." With a vicious grin, Kerrik drew his mace and circled the injured men, his chuckle low and menacing.


	20. From Darkness to Warmth

The witcher followed the witch hunter with his eyes, gauging the other man, looking for weaknesses as he stood immobile for an instant. Quiet crackles exploded in the silence followed by a small stream of dust and pebbles escaping the jointure in the ceiling as the ancient stonework contracted in the freezing air. With a barely perceptible growl, Eskel stood away from the Baron and observed the intruder, noting the mutated, feline eyes, knowing the other man could see in the dark as well as he could. The witcher moved away from the wall, savoring the sound his steel blade created as he drew it from its sheath; a counterpoint of deadly song in the frigid, gloomy room.

The scarred wolf placed his feet carefully as he began this warrior's dance. "Since when did mutants start working for the Church?" he taunted.

Kerrik sneered, impatient to start the fight and whirling his mace as he rushed forward to strike at Eskel's head. "You talk too much, freak!" he hissed in passing. The bastard was as fast as any witcher! Ducking under the blunt weapon, Eskel slashed at the witch hunter, the keen edge of his sword whistling as it passed through the air inches away from his target. Kerrik dodged away then rained a rapid series of blows the Wolf barely managed to parry in time.

* * *

Their harsh breaths and scraping steps echoed in the vaulted chamber, informing LaValette of the deadly struggle playing out mere feet from where he stood in utter darkness. Feeling his way down the wall, the Baron encountered the corner of another alcove as a new sound whispered between the spaces of clanging steel. A whimpered question was quickly shushed.

"Who's there," Aryan hissed sharply, dragging his sword up in his good hand into a protective stance. "Answer me!"

"D… don't hurt us," begged a fearful voice.

"I'm not here to hurt you. Who are you?" The Baron's question was counterpointed by another series of traded blows between the combatants.

"Are you one of the guards?" came the terrified reply.

"No," Aryan grunted. "I came looking for my sister."

"Who are you?" piped a second child between chattering teeth. Aryan held out a hand till he encountered the sharp point of a small shoulder.

"I'm Aryan. Now who are you?" he demanded. The man winced when he heard one of the combatants score a blow on the other, feeling utterly useless in the dark.

"Duck Duck?" shrieked the young soprano of the second child.

"Ani!" he exclaimed, incredulously. "Is that you?"

"You came for me!" A little hand connected with his arm and before he knew it, the small knot of a little body hurled itself into his arms.

* * *

Dancing back and forth to the music of ringing steel, witcher and witch hunter tested each other's mettle. The chill darkness of the room was punctuated by their harsh breaths and the shuffling of their feet as they drew apart again. Suddenly, the witch hunter spun around Eskel and brought his mace down hard on the witcher's left shoulder. The loud snap of breaking bone resounded in the chamber and the witch hunter yelled in triumph as the dark Wolf howled in pain. Eskel stumbled back gritting his teeth, he tried to raise his hand to cast igni at his assailant but his left arm wouldn't cooperate.

"Just give up, witcher," Kerrik panted. "You're wounded, crippled on one side. You'll never beat me. Lay down your sword and I won't stretch this out. I'll kill you fast."

The scarred Wolf sneered hideously then growled, "You talk too much, freak." Spinning his blade one handed, Eskel snarled and rained a series of blows on the other man, following up with a vicious slice across the man's belly. The witcher smelled the coppery tang of blood, heard the splash as large drops hit the floor.

Kerrik's laugh was disturbing as he choked, "Damn you, witcher, you killed me. But only one of us is going to walk out of here." With a final, heavy swing, the witch hunter reeled toward the wall where Aryan knelt. Ignoring the smaller forms with him, Kerrik raised his mace and smashed it into the side of the Baron's head with a hollow thud. The stricken man slid to the floor and jerked as if a mad puppeteer yanked invisible strings attached to his limbs. The smaller of the two children shrieked in horror, crying Aryan's name over and over, unaware that her brother's assailant was ready to stave in her head as well. Eskel roared and thundered after his opponent, striking an overhand blow that landed at the base of Kerrik's neck with such force the blade didn't stop till it reached his diaphragm. The body slid off the witcher's steel and, with a wet smack, tumbled to the ground. Falling to his knees beside the fallen nobleman, Eskel felt for a pulse. It was there, barely.

"Witcher," moaned LaValette through broken teeth.

"I'm here," Eskel ground as he grabbed the Baron's hand.

"Anais … I couldn't … couldn't …"

A sudden scrabbling to their left brought Eskel's head up as he noticed their audience for the first time. Her voice was timid and choked in tears "Duck Duck?" Her little hands reached out to find Aryan's ruined face.

"Shhh, Goose. Get her out of here, witcher," mumbled the Baron, clutching desperately at Eskel as he groaned." Promise … promise me she won't be used … she won't be used to ..." The Baron jerked spasmodically again, then lay still as death settled over him.

"I promise," Eskel murmured as he heard Aryan's heart still, felt the hand that clutched him fall away.

"Duck Duck? Aryan?" the little voice wailed. "Aryan!" she shrieked before Eskel could hush her.

Swiftly he cast axii, calming her. "Shhh, kid. We have to be quiet. Have to get out of here." The witcher hauled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the agony in his shoulder, seating his sword back in its sheath with difficulty.

"How will you get us out of here? I heard you say they locked us in." whispered the older child, a boy.

"He's a witcher, Gracen. Ary called him a witcher. You're a witcher, right?" asked the girl. "He can get us out." If his body weren't in such pain, if their situation weren't so dire, Eskel would have laughed at her logic.

"How would you know about witchers," mocked Gracen. "I've never met one, and you certainly haven't."

"Have too," defended Pip, starting to shake off the witcher's spell. "He had white hair and two swords. One was for monsters and the other for men." Eskel's head came up as he examined the child more closely.

"Anais," the witcher grunted.

"I… I'm not to answer to that name," the little girl muttered tearfully, suddenly very shy. The scarred man began to laugh.

At the look of confusion on her face, Eskel murmured, "We came for you, your half brother and I. Now we have to get out of here."

"But we have to leave him behind." Her eyes sought the still form of her brother as she wept. Eskel cringed at the grief in her voice.

"Yeah, we do. I'm sorry." With difficulty, the Wolf took a steadying breath. Even that hurt. Turning to the older child, he asked, "What's your name?"

"Gracen DeLong, of the Rinbe DeLongs, Master witcher." He folded in on himself then and didn't manage to choke back a sob. "I imagine that I am Lord DeLong now since the rest of my family perished."

"Maybe. Time enough to figure it out later," Eskel grunted, turning his head at the slight scrape of feet that filtered down from the right-hand alcove. "It's time to go. Gracen, I need you to hold onto my belt and keep hold of Anais too. My sword arm needs to be free in case I have to fight. Do you think you can do that?"

"Ye… yes sir," stammered the boy.

"Good, let's get out of here before we have company." Retracing his steps, Eskel led the children back to the ladder where they descended into the sewers.

They wandered the vaulted underground for an hour. The witcher wrapped his cloak around the children to keep them warm, but it wasn't enough. With bare feet and little more than rags to cover their nakedness, Gracen and Pip soon began to suffer desperately from the cold. Eskel tried to lead them out of the sewers into the town, but every portal was blocked. Damn that witch hunter to hell! The Wolf slumped against a wall and slid down to a sitting position, huddling the shivering children close as he fished out the wooden disk given him by the sorceress. It was time to call Triss. He hoped it wouldn't take her long to come to their aid as he snapped the thin wood between calloused fingers.

* * *

Triss flopped over on her pillow for the umpteenth time, punching the offending feathered cushion down in an attempt to get comfortable. All evening she had felt jittery and who could blame her? Novigrad was on the cusp of war, everyone was on edge. The rich had vacated the city to huddle in their country estates, even the middle classes found excuses to visit relatives in outlying villages, And the churchmen? They had retreated to their temple and locked themselves inside. All that was left were the poorest Novigrad residents and a burgeoning population of Radovid's soldiers. Giving up any hope of finding sleep, she slid from the warm covers and padded to the frosted window. Massaging her temples, she gazed at the sky. The moon was setting, allowing a few stars to twinkle down at her from the clear dome of the heavens.

The time to leave Novigrad was pressing in on all of them. If Triss had her way, they would leave now, before the fighting started. But Avallac'h had taken off with Geralt a few days ago and had yet to return. Ciri, also, made herself scarce in their absence, irritating Philippa and worrying Marguerite. They wished to offer the girl a place in the lodge once again. Triss shook her head and played with the ward she wore on her wrist. She didn't see Ciri submitting herself to them now or ever and that wouldn't sit well with Eilhart. Triss almost wanted to be there when the young woman rebuffed the older sorceress. Almost. Not for the first time, Triss asked herself why she thought it expedient to remain, subordinated to Philippa's power hungry nature. Because she wanted to be a part of shaping nations. At least, she used to want that. Shaking her head, Triss wondered if being Tancred Thyssen's court mage wouldn't be all the intrigue she ever wanted for the rest of her life.

Chuckling to herself, the chestnut haired woman was just turning back toward the bed when the ward began to vibrate. Eskel! Concentrating on the vibrations and voicing a spell, Triss caught the sense of frigid cold, pain, and darkness. She quickly threw on her clothes and started to cast the portal that would take her directly to his side. She paused, then whisked the blankets off her bed and voiced the incantation, disappearing in a swirling roar of black and purple energy.

* * *

The first thing to hit her senses when she emerged from the portal was the smell. Ammonia and feces dueled, even in the freezing air, for a point of prominence in her nose and she gagged. A wry chuckle followed by a swift intake of breath as if from pain emanated from somewhere in front of her. She spoke another incantation, holding her hand up as white light flooded the sewer chamber around her. She gasped, taking in her surroundings, immediately regretting that swiftly indrawn breath.

"About time you showed up, Merigold," coughed Eskel as a ragged shudder ran through him. He sat with his arm around two lumps huddled against him under his cloak and looked up at her with squinted, bleary eyes.

"What … what happened to you, Eskel?" she exclaimed as she knelt at his side, noting the bruises and fresh blood, and the way he cradled his left arm tenderly to his chest. A small head popped up from under the cloak, blinking owlishly in the light, followed by another. Triss met the witcher's eyes and he nodded. Swiftly she read his mind and realized who the children were.

"Need to get out of here or we're going to freeze to death," he said through chattering teeth. "All the exits are blocked. Can you get us back to Kaer Morhen?"

"Not in one jump, but I can get you to Novigrad quickly," she said as she wrapped the children in her bedding and settled the cloak carefully around the wounded Wolf before casting a warming spell that encompassed the four of them.

"Can't take the risk." He nodded at the tiny child huddled against the bigger boy. "It's gotta be Kaer Morhen. I made a promise," murmured the witcher, his words slurring.

"I need help sending you so far." Bracing his good arm over her shoulders, she pulled him upright. "For now, I'll take you to Keira's old hideout in Vellen. It's not too far and we can at least get you warmed up, patched, and fed." With a word of power, the sorceress channeled the magical force through her body and summoned blue, black swirls into being. She hastened the children to proceed her then she and Eskel stepped through. The portal roared in the deserted tunnel for another few seconds, fading ripples twisting in the air for a few moments before dissipating and returning the sewer to abject darkness.

* * *

The children were cleaned, their wounds tended, and their bellies full before Triss tucked them into bedrolls by the fire. Poor mites, they had endured so much. It broke her heart to see what had been done to them in Tretogor's dungeons. Eskel had insisted she see to them first, now it was his turn. She turned toward the bed where the scarred man fitfully dozed, stripped to his breeches and covered with a blanket. Sitting on the edge of the straw tick mattress, the sorceress brushed a lock of hair away from the witcher's face, waking him with her soft touch.

"They're asleep." She nodded toward the bedrolls near the fire. "This is likely going to hurt, but it needs to be done."

"I won't make a sound," he grumbled, pushing himself up with his good arm as she poked and prodded his left shoulder. Her fingers were firm, yet gentle, though he had to accept a bite stick as she felt along the broken collarbone. When she pushed on the middle of the clavicle, he groaned and bunched the blanket in his fist.

"Well, you can be thankful for your mutations and early witcher's diet that your bones are thicker and stronger than a normal human's," she said, a look of concentration on her face. "It's a simple fracture, but there's displacement of the distal end. I think the break is in the median third of the bone, however, which is good."

Spitting out the bite stick, he gave her a sour look. "How is that good?"

"It means we just need to get the bones close and it SHOULD knit together." Nodding to herself, she began to cast a spell. "I don't think you have any nerve damage. You can move your arm, even if it hurts and you can feel all your fingers. You might want to use that bite stick again. I've got to push the bone into place and use a spell to create the knit that holds it there. This will be painful."

"Can't you just cast something that makes it hurt less?" He wiggled the fingers of his right hand.

"I just did, along with a muscle relaxing spell. It's still going to twinge a bit." She placed her right palm under the far end of Eskel's clavicle, pushing up on the bone as she pushed down just enough with her left hand on the other half to keep it stable. Even with the bite stick, the pain was almost overwhelming and the witcher fought not to scream as she forced the bone ends together. She spoke another spell and he felt warmth tingle through his shoulder. Before he got comfortable with the sensation, it escalated into a swarm of angry hornets that were stinging him relentlessly. He dropped his head to her shoulder as sweat rolled in rivers off of him. The spell ended after ten minutes, though it felt as if she had tortured him for hours. Shaking, he lay back against the pillows she plumped for him.

"The lady says it's going to twinge a bit," he rasped, "I'd hate to know your definition of agony, Triss." She chuckled low in her throat as she pulled a swallow potion from his satchel and carefully unstoppered it for him.

"When was the last time you dosed yourself?" she asked, peering at the ragged bites that trailed down his pectoral muscles nearly to his nipple. A matching set of teeth marks marched along the ridge of his scapula.

"After I killed Adda. Maybe an hour, an hour and a half before I called you." He leaned gingerly against the headboard, his eyes closed as he psyched himself up to drink the potion. Of all the foul brews he used in his profession, he hated the over-sweet, cloying taste of swallow the most. If it didn't have such a profound effect when he was hurt, he would make do without it entirely. Triss fussed around him, applying a sling that held his arm close to his chest so he couldn't move it. Eskel breathed in her soft scent and looked down at her through barely open eyes.

"Thank you for saving us back there."

A smile danced around the corners of her mouth as she dipped her head. "I told you I would come if you needed me." She settled the blankets around his hips and brushed the hair out of his face again, letting her fingers linger on his brow a little longer than necessary. They sat in the fading flickers of hearth light, captured in the soft glow. Shaking herself out of her torpor, Triss turned to leave his bedside. His good hand captured her smaller one, turning it over to deliver a kiss into the cup of her palm. Sparks shot up her arm at the barest brush of his lips and the sorceress struggled to maintain her composure.

The Wolf studied the woman, wondering if he dared do more than brush her hand in a chaste kiss. Would she truly respond to him or was she still pining for Geralt? He was still uncertain of her, afraid to risk making love to her only to hear his brother's name in the throes of passion. Better to wait, to make sure there were no shadows left between them. Besides, even if he weren't wounded, the children made effective chaperones. Distracting himself from his wayward thoughts, he gazed at her. She was different, but how? Forcing his tired mind to concentrate, he cocked his head as he leaned forward.

"You changed your hair." Eskel's murmured observation pleased her and she blushed as he lifted his fingers to brush through the silky strands. "Like it was years ago. It suits you."

She raised her eyes to his and her smile faltered. "I felt it was time to be myself again." Her arms crept around her middle as her gaze turned away, flitting around the room. His touch was gentle as he turned her face toward him again with fingertips at her chin.

"If you have to change who you are to satisfy someone else, they really aren't worth the effort." His lopsided grin tugged at her heart pulling an answering twitch from her own lips.

Triss regarded the dark witcher, so different from the one she had once thought she wanted. She wondered if he had forgiven her for that night at Kaer Morhen, still fresh in her memory. Eskel was vulnerable right now and she refused to take advantage of him in this weakened state. The old Triss wouldn't have hesitated, but she was no longer that woman. Taking his hand in hers, she smoothed his calloused fingers.

"Tell me what happened down there?" she asked gently. He threaded his fingers through hers and schooled his face into a neutral expression, recounting everything from the morning they parted in the rain. Finally, he sat back and closed his eyes.

"You're sure the man was mutated?" She shivered as the witcher finished his tale.

"We knew what the Church was planning," he grumbled. Triss nodded and bit her lip as the first tender rays of light peeked over Velen and through the little window by the bed.

"It just disturbs me they've come so far already," she murmured then shook her head. "We'll think what to do after we've both gotten some sleep." Smiling wearily, she rose from his side, but he wouldn't let her hand go.

"Lay here with me, Triss?" he asked huskily. She hesitated. "There's just this one bed and it's not fair for you to sleep on the floor. I promise to be a gentleman," Eskel said making room for her under the covers as he scooted down to lie on his back. She nodded, too tired to protest, climbing under the blanket next to him. The bed was narrow and she was forced to nestle into his warmth, making no protest when his good arm cradled her gently as she drifted into dreams.

* * *

She slept till the children woke sometime after noon. Triss rose and fed the kids then treated their wounds. They would both bear scars from their imprisonment. The physical marks were minor in comparison with the psychological trauma they had endured, however. They did seem resilient in the way of children everywhere, sitting in a patch of sunlight and reveling in their newfound freedom. Eskel was still sleeping, curled on his good side, the pillow bunched in his arm and the blanket tangled about his legs. It was time to wake him for another round of healing.

For a moment, she regarded the witcher. Most of his nicks, cuts, and scrapes were scabbed over. The nasty bite Adda had given him would take a while to heal and add to his collection of scars. Triss sat at the edge of the bed and nudged Eskel's hip gently. His eyes cracked open just enough for her to see the glitter of gold between his eyelashes.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she said, offering him a plate of toasted bread and cheese and a cup of tea. "How are you feeling?"

Pushing himself up, the witcher scrubbed a hand over his face and took stock. His shoulder was still exceptionally painful, he felt nauseated from potion use and his mouth tasted like an ash bin. All things considered, he'd been in worse shape. Clearing his throat, he took the proffered tea and swished it around in his mouth before replying. "I'm alive."

"And I thank Melitele for that!" she exclaimed, tugging the blanket smooth around him. "Finish your breakfast then we'll do another healing session. I want to make sure that bone isn't going to break again if you move wrong."

"You going to take us to Kaer Morhen today?" Eskel asked around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

"I'm going to contact Yennefer. I need her help to create such a long distance portal."

"Did Keira leave her megascope?" His eyebrows quirked upward in surprise.

Triss shrugged. "I honestly don't know. Haven't looked around the place beyond foraging for breakfast. It wouldn't be like her to abandon it, however."

"Just curiosity," he mumbled, "I know magic users have their ways … but if there's no megascope, how do you plan on talking to Yen?"

The sorceress pulled a droll face. "Trade secret. Actually, I think I'll just portal back to Novigrad and asking her in person." Eskel nodded as he polished off the food.

"I don't suppose you would be willing to find Scorpion for me? Or take me back to Tretogor so I can."

"You must really love that horse," she teased with a gleam in her eye.

"He takes care of me, I take care of him. We're partners!" Eskel snorted.

"I can go get him after I talk to Yen. If you have something - a bridle strap, anything that he might have used recently - it will help me find him." Eskel thought a moment, then reached for his satchel, hanging conveniently at the end of the bed.

"I have a broken bit." He dug into the bag and produced two pieces of metal, weighing them in his hand. "Was going to get it fixed after this business was over." She took the broken pieces from him then tidied the bed as the witcher stepped outside to relieve himself. When he returned, she motioned him to a stool and began casting her preparatory spells.

"Alright. Brace your left arm." Triss stroked her hand along the witcher's shoulder, honest enough to enjoy the sight of his still naked chest and the feel of his skin under her palm.

Obeying her instructions, Eskel looked doubtfully at the sorceress. "This fixes things, right? I'll be able to use my arm after this?"

"No, this just ensures the two pieces of your collar bone stay in place while the ends knit back together. Keira can give you these treatments if she's still at Kaer Morhen, otherwise, you'll need to keep it immobilized for at least another five weeks." Triss motioned Eskel to sit up straight as she grounded herself and drew power to cast her spell. "This might sting."

Eskel's sarcastic laugh was swallowed in a grunt of pain. "The lady says it might sting," he gasped, gritting his teeth and trying to remember to breathe. Another ten grueling minutes crawled by before the witcher heaved himself back into the bed, shaking with pain. Even with potions and preparatory spells, Triss's healing magic hurt. He dozed while she puttered about the cabin, washing the breakfast dishes and setting a pot to simmer over the fire. Eskel wasn't sure where she got the provisions, but he wasn't about to question her sources when the smell of venison and root vegetables wafted to his nose. He awoke when she laid a cool hand on his cheek.

"I'll be back in a few hours with your horse," she said then chuckled wryly. "Just like a witcher to be most worried about his mount than he is himself."

"Don't scoff," he grumbled. "Scorpion and I understand each other. He's saved my life more than once." She wrinkled her nose at him then turned to watch the children. Gracen and Anais blinked owlishly in the bright afternoon light, finally daring to believe they were free. Dashing out of the house, their joyful shrieks echoed amongst the trees as they chased through the nearby woods.

"You should probably keep an eye on those two, make sure they don't find trouble," she murmured, arching a brow as she began to cast her portal. Shoving a hand through his thick hair, the witcher promised he would. He watched Triss stroll into the roaring vortex before hauling himself out of bed. Leaning casually on the door frame, he caught Gracen's eye.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Who wants to beat me at Gwent?"

* * *

Triss trotted the black stallion into the yard, their shadows stretching long against the frozen ground. She dismounted and looped his reins over a post near the door, scratching idly at the horse's ear and leaning wearily against his withers. The stallion had been easy enough to find and proved himself quite docile when offered apple slices from her hand. If only Yennefer had been as easy to handle. Triss had spent too much time persuading the ebon haired sorceress that Ciri and Geralt could manage on her own for a little while. In the end, it was the White Wolf that spurred Yennefer to capitulate, asking Triss to take him Velen with her. Both sorceresses had been surprised Geralt had been so ready to jump in a portal.

Eskel came to the door and watched her for a moment, the dying rays of the sun catching in her hair and turning the strands into gold. "Did Scorpion give you any trouble?"

"He was a pussycat," murmured Triss, pushing away from Scorpion's flank to join Eskel in the doorway. "Yennefer and Geralt should be here soon, but we have time for another healing session." Eskel groaned, draping his good arm around her shoulders and leading her inside. Gracen and Anais sat before the fire playing dice, looking up when the adults strolled in.

"How about we eat first, then you can do what you want with me." Eskel gave her a leering grin, laughing when she punched him lightly in the ribs. "Seriously, you must be hungry." He handed out bowls, serving up their meal before settling down at the little table. Triss listened to the children talk excitedly about all they had done while she was away, though even their chatter couldn't distract her from the vital male that sat across from her. When they had finished eating, she set the children to clean up their dishes while she gave Eskel another treatment.

The witcher had just laid down on the bed when the door rattled open, admitting Yennefer and Geralt. "Don't you two believe in knocking?" Eskel groused, ill humored.

"You knew we were coming. At this time of year it's unlikely anyone else would be about," stated Yennefer, looking around the cozy room in distaste.

"And they would have had the courtesy to knock," the scarred man quipped, pushing himself into a sitting position with a groan.

"Triss." The ebon haired sorceress looked around the tiny space with a sniff, her eyes falling on the children. "Want to tell us what's going on now?"

"And hello to you too, Yen," muttered Triss, "There's a little stew left. Would either of you like some?" Geralt accepted the offer, but the other woman just shook her head. Placing a full bowl in front of the White Wolf, Tris regarded their guests with a pensive expression. Eskel sank into a chair opposite his brother and leaned his head in his hand.

"I remember you," piped a little voice at Geralt's elbow. The white haired witcher looked down into wide, blue eyes before nodding to the little girl. Anais tilted her head and poked at the wolf's head medallion Geralt wore. "Are you and Eskel brothers?"

"You could say that," Geralt muttered, taking another bite of stew.

"We're both Wolf witchers, squirt," said Eskel, sitting up. Geralt grimaced at the haggard look on his brother's face. Catching the scarred man's eye, he nodded toward the door.

"You two stay with Triss. Geralt and I'll be back in a little bit." Eskel levered himself away from the table and walked slowly out the door, leading the white haired man away from the cabin.

"Really. I don't know what they have to discuss that can't be said in front of us," Yennefer snipped, watching the men retreat with barely concealed ire.

"Maybe they just want to talk." Triss shrugged as she folded up the bedding she would take back to the Chameleon tonight. "They won't get a chance again for some time."

"True, though once this business with the Hunt is over, we plan on returning to Kaer Morhen for Yule."

Triss traced patterns in the tabletop and sighed. "I hope we can all go back. In the meantime, I need your help sending Eskel and the kids to the keep."

"Why not leave them here?" Only Yennefer could make a question into a demand.

Triss's eyes slid to the children, resting on Anais as the little girl set a bowl back in its place on the shelf. "It's easier to hide them away up in the Blue Mountains, easier to conceal them from those who would use them to secure power," the chestnut haired woman licked her lips and nodded toward the little girl. "Best if the world believes her, especially, to be dead."

"That's really Anais LaValette?" Black curls bobbed as the woman swiveled her head toward the children. Sighing, Yennefer agreed. "I know what Emhyr would do with her. You're right. They need to simply disappear."

"Dijkstra and Roche also want her," put in Triss. "Eskel promised her brother to hide her from all of them. Life at Kaer Morhen wouldn't be all that bad, you know. At least she'll have a chance at her own life." Both women remembered Ciri's time with the witchers when she was a child. There were worse ways to grow up.

"Who's the boy?" Yennefer helped herself to water for tea.

"Redanian nobility," replied Triss preparing her own cup. "Radovid killed his family at Belleteyne and gave their titles and estates to one of his loyal dogs. He'll do better with the witchers, too."

"We should get them on their way, then, and return to the Chameleon. Geralt and Avallac'h came back just this morning and now that damned sage wants to hold a council," huffed Yennefer. "Philippa is also insisting on an interview with Ciri tonight. I've persuaded her to wait till we return, but she won't be held off forever."

"Ciri won't join the lodge," Triss said, utterly assured. "I wish I could be there to see her response in person, but I've been excluded from that meeting on the basis that I'm too close to all of you to be objective."

"That makes both of us." Yennefer finished her tea, her eyes roaming to door. "So tell me how all this came about. How did you know Eskel needed help?" Triss expected the question, had rehearsed what she would say but in the end, she gave a simple account.

"I gave him an enchanted ward that I could use as a homing beacon. I found him last night in the sewers of Tretogor."

The other sorceress regarded her friend then tipped a sly grin. "You like him."

"What if I do?"

"It was an observation." Yennefer leaned forward and placed a hand over Triss's clenched fist. "He's a good man, what little I've seen. A good witcher. I think he suits you."

Triss shrugged, her eyes going back to the cabin door. She wasn't yet ready to discuss her feelings with her friend. Not before she and the scarred Wolf had reached an understanding at least. The children finished washing up, drawing the women toward other topics of conversation. A few minutes later, the witchers returned, their faces carefully neutral as the women turned to them.

"It's time to go," Eskel growled, offering Triss his hand as she rose from her seat. "You think you can put us in the upper courtyard?"

"We should be able to do that, yes," murmured Triss. He held her hand for a few heartbeats longer then moved to gather his belongings. The children donned the warm clothes Geralt and Yennefer had brought with them before the whole company wandered out into a frigid and moon-spangled night.

The White Wolf settled Anais in front of Gracen on Scorpion's back then turned to bid Eskel safe travels. "We'll be back at Kaer Morhen for Yule," growled the white haired witcher. "Make sure Lambert make plenty of his special Wassail."

"Just the thought of it gives me a hangover," Eskel groaned and shuddered. "I think Vesemir used it to strip the grout in the kitchen last year." The men chuckled, clasping arms. Geralt retreated to stand beside his sorceress as Triss approached the dark haired man.

"Take care of yourself, Triss. I better see you at Yule," he said, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes and bringing his hand to rest against her cheek.

She smiled up at him and quipped, "I always take care of myself, and wild horses couldn't keep me away from Kaer Morhen when the Hunt is dealt with."

"I'll hold you to that," the dark man replied, holding the woman's gaze. He threaded his good hand in her hair and leaned forward, capturing her lips in a kiss that curled her toes.

"Eskel," Triss breathed as he raised his head. He smiled at her, the heat in his eyes a bone melting promise. Caressing her face one last time, the Wolf turned and leaped into the saddle behind the children. The sorceresses began to weave their spell, drawing on the force of magic and synergizing with each other's power to open a gateway. Eskel kicked the horse in the ribs and trotted into the portal, fading from their sight.

"It's time we returned to Novigrad, my friend," Yennefer murmured. "Geralt and Avallac'h brought someone back with them. There are plans to be made." Triss agreed and the roar of a portal sounded once again as the sorceresses and the White Wolf left the little cabin to its solitude.


End file.
